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FATHER KELLY 

OF 

THE ROSARY 


7 ^ 

By a 

EUiward E. Rose 




Novelized from His Beautiful Play 
“THE ROSARY” 


Published by 

The Rosary Publishing Co. 


Price, 50c. 


Copyright, 1910, by 

EDWARD E. ROSE. EDWARD W. ROWI^ND, EDWIN 
CLIFFORD and GEO. NICOLAJ ' 


Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London, England ' 

All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreig»F 
0 languages, including Scandinavian. 

Published, October, 19103 


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FATHER KELLY 








CONTENTS 


Chapticr Page 

I. A Thief in the Night 1 

II. A Moulder of Men 5 

III. At Daybreak 16 

IV. A Morning in Wall St 26 

V. The Girl From Bellows Falls 35 

VI. Within the Gates of Eden 49 

VII. The Home in Eden 66 

VIII. After Many Years 87 

IX. The Note of Discord 106 

X. Two Sisters and a Secret 123 

XL The Wisdom of Father Kelly 130 

XII. The Man in the Shrubbery 143 

XIII. In the Silent Hours 155 

XIV. A Question of Erin 159 

XV. The Crisis in Eden 180 

XVI. The Throb of Tragedy 193 

XVII. “The Moving Finger Writes” 216 

XVHI. To the Chapel of the Rosary 228 

XIX. In the Gray Dawn 241 

XX. The Voice From Above 251 
















CHAPTER I 

A Thief in the Night 

S OMETHING stirred vaguely back in the 
inner consciousness of Plainclothes Man 
McCoy, as he passed the point where the 
little East Side alley joined the almost silent 
main street of the Bowery. 

The sensation was transient, elusive, but, to the 
educated sense of the thief tracker, it meant — 
something. Just what, he did not know ; he was 
not expert in psychic analysis. 

Warily, he paused and looked about him, then 
flattened his bulky figure against the rickety 
board fence, and shifting the half burned cigar 
to the other corner of his thin lips, tilted his 
faded derby hat close down over his ferrety eyes 
and peered distrustfully through the dank mist 
and darkness. 

In the world of crime seekers, nerve contrac- 
tion means, wait; wait with every faculty alert 
and prepared — wait. 

McCoy waited. 

Shimmering mist covered everything.; a dull 
glow here and there showed the positions of 
street lamps. It was late. A distant city clo;ck, 
somewhere oif in the fog, told the hour with a 
single stroke, one! Nearer, a train on the ele- 
vated set the damp air a-quiver as it sped uptown. 
The sharp staccato exhaust of a belated taxicab 


t Father Kelly of the Rosary 

ploughed a furrow of crescendo-diminuendo 
sound through the heavy, murky night; then 
silence again. 

McCoy shook his heavy shoulders. In his pro- 
fession, unexplained sensation meant mystery, 
mystery meant — perhaps crime. He was puzzled, 
an unusual occurrence to the most astute mind 
in the Central Office. He turned away, frown- 
ing, gave up trying to fathom the half-defined 
sensation he had felt; he began to smile at him- 
self. After all it was probably nothing; he had 
had a hard day, just nervous, that was it 
jind 

A sound came through the night-damp. It was 
so faint that only the most alert ear could have 
sensed it, but it stopped McCoy as though an 
invisible hand were laid upon his shoulder. Not 
an ordinary sound, he told himself, there was in 
it a grinding, tearing undertone of force. It was 
not repeated. The fog seemed to draw closer 
about him; the stillness to grow more profound. 

McCoy pursed his lips to a reflective, inaudi- 
ble whistle and went slowly, silently down the 
narrow alley, every sense in him alert. 

The slim, crouching figure near the areaway 
door of the plain brick house at the alley's fur- 
therest end, did not hear his light step. One 
hand held a jimmy, the other was raised to 
muffle a low chuckle as the sharp eyes surveyed 
the open door. 

“Neat, eh, Skeeter” ; it was a faint whisper. 
“Very neat. Now let's see what's inside.” 

A gentle push and the door opened wide. 
Darkness beyond with all sorts of latent dan- 


3 


A Thief in the Night 

gers ; but the rubber soled canvas shoes made no 
noise as the slender, youthful figure stole in- 
side. 

To the cracksman’s instinct for scenting 
plunder is joined another sense quite as useful: 
the ability to move about in stygian darkness 
with unerring accuracy. For mental registra- 
tion, or, perhaps, because he felt the absence of 
some usual partner in the present expedition, 
this housebreaker kept up a quiet, mental com- 
ment as he moved. 

“Yes, it’s the kitchen — pipe the stove, lucky, 
the fire’s out. Ah — the cook’s rocking chair — 
and — Gee! nearly had me; that table. Now 
what the h — ? Oh, somebody’s slipper — feet 
like hams. I’d surely hate to have one of ’em 
cop me. Now — well, what a place to leave a 
broom ! Mrs. Cook, you’re fired for that. Yes, 
and where is the door upstairs ? Ah, right under 
my mitt and I wasn’t wise.” 

Slowly it swung open just enough to allow 
him to wriggle through. Then the comments 
went on. 

“Nice door. Thank someone for oiling the 
hinges. Stairs carpeted. Ah! I guess this is 
bad.” 

One step at a time, cautiously keeping close to 
the stair rail — that no loose board might creak 
an alarm — and the landing was safely reached. 

“In the dining room, Skeeter, they keep the 
plate,” he whispered. “All the nice silver spoons, 
and forks, and knives. Do they want to travel 
and see the city? Oh, my, yes. Now which 
door, eh?” 


4 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


A moments pause and the massive door on 
the right swung open a bare ten inches. 

‘‘Am I right, or am I dippy?” he asked soft- 
ly. Then he chuckled; in the darkness his rov- 
ing hand touched “Sideboard? Sure, 

Skeeter, old boy; feel the knobs and the lock, 
and ” 

The hand stopped in its careful exploration 
and his head seemed to sink in between his shoul- 
ders. Yet there had been no audible sound — 
nothing had stirred in the silent house, but the 
instinct of the hunted had whispered to the ob- 
jective mind and every faculty was at work. 

A long minute passed and the crouching form 
did not move. 

Somewhere, in the quiet of the house, a silver 
clock bell chimed half past one. The musical 
notes were like shining, trickling streams of 
sound into the bowl of the room's utter dark- 
ness. 

Two minutes ticked the slackening pulse beats, 
and a long, deep breath was drawn. 

“Ah-h-h ! I'm a fool ! Got the willies. Come 
on now, you sideboard, let's see what you got 
inside of ” 

A flash! The whole, great room became a 
mass of yellow golden light, as the electric en- 
ergy leaped through the pressed button at the 
opposite door and flowed into the carbon fila- 
ments of wall and chandelier and table lamps. 

With a startled exclamation the burglar 
leaped to his feet and faced the figure standing 
quietly in the farther doorway. 

It was a man in the dress of a priest. 


A Moulder of Men 


5 


CHAPTER II 
A Moulder of Men 

F ace a criminal with danger and he be- 
comes animal ; civilization, that result of 
the mighty upward struggle of humanity, 
drops from him like some loose garment and 
in look, in bearing, he returns to the cave man 
type. It was so now as the housebreaker faced 
the sudden interrupter of his plans. 

It was a calm face that looked at him. The 
steady gray eyes had that deep, inward peace 
gained by victory over self, and long years of 
service to others. Silvery white hair, cut quite 
in the modern way, covered the head, whose 
noble outline told of intellect, strength and 
tenacity. 

So they stood, priest and cracksman, the very 
antipodes of society, and gazed at each other for 

the space of ten throbbing pulse beats. Then 

‘‘And yet you look like a smart boy!’^ There 
was a cadence almost caressing in the calm voice 
of the priest, and the delicate suggestion of a 
cultured Irish accent, but so light and shadowy 
that it gave a charming aroma to his slightest 
word. 

The burglar^s mouth opened in pure amaze- 
ment. He had expected reproaches, bitter words 
— anything but the gentle, lingering note of sor- 
row in the other’s tone. Try as he would he 
could only stammer: 


6 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


"‘Why-I-I-er-I ” Words did not seem to 

fit easily, just then, into his mental scheme of 
thing’s. 

The priest smiled. Human natures, on what- 
ever plane, were like printed pages to his eye. 
He had studied life from many angles and knew 
from the outer indications what was passing 
within this crdprit’s mind. 

“Yes, you look like a smart boy,” he went on 
calmly. “There’s a keen look in your eye ; you 
haven’t a bad face. I’d never pick you out in a 
crowd for anything but a good, honest lad.” 

He paused a moment as if to give the object 
of his criticism opportunity to reply. When 
none came he spoke again, but sharply this time. 
“Stand up like a man ! Don’t cringe there against 
my sideboard ! Faith, I can’t bear to see a 
human being groveling. Do you think I’m wish- 
ful to bite you? Stand upT 

At the second command the boy took a step 
forward toward the priest. His body sprang 
erect, his shoulders went back, then a wave of 
color flooded his pale face. The other looked 
him over for a moment, then nodded and smiled. 

“That’s better,” he said. “Now, will you 
please tell me why you look like a clever fellow 
when you’re not one at all?” 

“How do you know I ain’t clever?” The bur- 
glar’s confidence was slowly coming back to 
him. 

The priest pursed up his lips, in the manner of 
one considering a weighty problem, before he 
replied. “How do I know, eh? Well, look at 
yourself, then take a mental survey all about 


A Moulder o£ Men 


7 


you. Here’s a large, bustling, whirling world 
of these United States — say eighty millions of 
people. For their own good they make laws. 
One of these is, in plain language, 'Keep out of 
a man’s house, unless he invites you to call on 
him.’ Wait,” he said, as the youth made a move- 
ment to reply. "They make this law among 
others and back it up with unanimous approval. 
Well, along comes a slip of a lad, barely” — 
looking him over with a critical eye — "barely 
ninteen, and he says to himself: ‘Oho,’ says he, 
‘but I’m smarter than these eighty odd million 
and their foolish little law,’ he says. ‘I won’t 
work and earn an honest living,’ he says. ‘Why 
should I? Sure, I’m too bright to be wasting 
my time in such a humble way. No,’ he says, 
smiling to himself. ‘Let the others work, those 
who haven’t my superior ability. As for me,' 
he says, ‘I’ll just take my living, sure, and it’s 
only my just due,’ he says. And this poor, 
foolish lad actually tries to do that same with 
all the world against him.” 

The burglar shuffled his feet nervously and 
muttered something inarticulate. Such philos- 
ophy as this had never been presented to him. 

"Well !” The priest’s tone was direct, incisive. 
"What have you to say to that, eh?” 

The housebreaker shook his head slowly. 

"Never thought of what you were doing in 
just that way, did you?” the priest went on. 
"No, I’ll venture to say you never thought at all. 
‘I’m so very dexterous,’ says you, and others 
like you, ‘that they’ll never catch me ; oh, no, in- 
deed. I can take a man’s property, and no one 


8 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


will ever know I did it/ Come, now, leave out 
the morality of the thing entirely and look at it 
on a square business basis. Isn't a fellow who 
reasons like that a fool?" 

The sarcasm and the epithet cut through the 
burglar’s reserve. '‘But I got in," he said 
clearly, and there was a note of triumph in his 
voice. “You locked up and everyone went to 
bed. 'We’re all right,’ you said; 'doors locked, 
burglar alarm set — probably. Oh, yes, we’re 
safe.’ But I got inside." 

“And what of that?’ inquired the priest, un- 
ruffled." ‘I got inside,’ you say. And you seem 
disposed to crow like a half-demented young 
rooster at your wonderful achievement. Well, 
why shouldn’t you get in here, when no door or 
window is ever locked in my dwelling," 

L “What’s that?" 

^ “You heard me," the priest went on. “Noth- 
ing is ever locked in this house." He turned 
swiftly to the window on his right and threw 
up the sash. 

“Observe, my young and mentally defective 
friend, what a complete ignoramus you are.’’ 
He smiled at the bewildered youth. “There’s a 
low shed roof beyond and the convenient ash 
barrel in the yard below would have saved you 
a stealthy trip up my stairs in the dark. Tell 
me, did you bark your shins against the rocking 
chair in the kitchen? No! I’m sorry. I was 
hoping it had given you a souvenir or two of 
this evening’s adventure. And will you look 
here?" He moved across the room to the side- 
board and carelessly threw its doors wide open, 


A Moulder of Men 


9 


showing the gleaming silver it contained. *‘Un- 
locked,” he observed, smiling quietly. “ ‘So you 
got in,’ did you say? Man alive, the clumsiest 
hod carrier working on that new building across 
the street could have done the same thing. So 
you see there’s really no merit in your perform- 
ance.” 

He rested one arm on the sideboard and gazed 
at the marauder with a twinkle in his eye. “And 
yet, as I think I observed, you look like a smart 
boy. Ah, surely, looks are mighty deceiving — 
sometimes.” 

The burglar took a step forward and there 
was a hard, almost a dangerous, glitter in his 
eye. “Suppose,” he said huskily, the words 
seeming to rasp in his throat, “suppose now I 
am in here, I say I’m not going without some- 
thing for my trouble? Suppose ” 

The priest cut in on his covert threat calmly. 
“What would I say? Just this — ^by all means 
go ahead and make a complete amadhaun of 
yourself. Fill your pockets with my silver, lad, 
sure it’s there waiting for you. Only, if you 
love me, leave a knife and fork that I may use 
at breakfast and don’t slam the door when you 
go out. Y ou might wake my cook and a peevish 
disposition in the kitchen means a badly pre- 
pared meal and indigestion.” 

He took up a well worn copy of Epictetus from 
the round mahogany table as he spoke and, seat- 
ing himself in a roomy, comfortable chair, 
opened the volume and became oblivious of the 
intruder. 

Silence then in the wide room save for the 


10 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

ticking of the dainty ormulu clock on the man- 
tel. A cab rumbled by in the street outside, the 
click of the horse’s hoofs beating a rhythmical 
tattoo upon the pavement. Somewhere off in the 
East River a tug’s siren moaned a warning to 
other craft afloat at that hour. 

“A bluff,” muttered the boy to himself and 
took a step toward the open sideboard. Then 
something in the steady composure of the black 
clothed figure sitting quietly in the chair, made 
him pause. It was not fear. Those of the Un- 
derworld who knew Skeeter would have scouted 
that idea. Many were the instances, related in 
those subterranean circles, of his cool nerve and 
superb daring. Yet here, with plunder within 
his reach, under his hand, almost in his grasp, 
he hesitated. His eyes, accustomed to appraise 
booty at a glance, roved over the silver that tiie 
yawning sideboard showed. 

He moistened his dry lips as he mentally com- 
puted what it would bring at Mother Meg’s, 
who ran a “fence” for the real top notchers in 
the house breaking profession. 

One furtive step and his lean hand closed over 
a box of beautifully engraved spoons. Then he 
turned his head, in the crook’s sidelong fashion, 
as if half expecting to feel a hand on his shoul- 
der. 

The quiet figure in the armchair had not 
moved. As Skeeter paused and stared, one 
white, well groomed hand went up to the book’s 
top slowly. A page rustled as it was turned. 
The calm, gray eyes followed its movement and 
thot^ht fully began on the new leaf's upper line. 


A Moulder of Men 


11 


Their owner might have been sitting with only 
his closest and most trusted friend in the room. 

The burglar dropped the box with a clatter 
of heavy silver and brought his clenched hand 

down on the sideboard’s polished top. “By ” 

he strangled the oath half unconsciously. *T 
can’t! I can’t do it!” 

The priest turned in his chair with an indul- 
gent smile. “And are you there still, my young 
and avaricious friend,” he said ? “Sure, I thought 
you’d be miles away by this time, maybe, your 
pockets bulging with my spoons, forks, knives 
and all.” 

“I can’t do it !” muttered Skeeter again. “Why 
can’t I? You said there they are, go to it! 
And — a id here I stand like a kid out on his first 
job. Why can’t I?” 

“Because — ^you are a smart lad, after all;” 
and the priest’s smile was wonderful in its kind- 
line s. He carefully closed his forefinger within 
the book and held its soft vellum cover to his 
chin as he studied the boy. “Only,” he went 
on, “you never quite realized that the man who 
starts out to ^take’ his living contrary to the 
law of the land is lacking in common sense. 
He’s fighting eighty millions of people, and that’s 
just crazy.” 

Skeeter studied this proposition thoughtfully. 
He looked down at himself, then slowly about 
the broad, wainscoted room, as though he saw 
the mass of humanity he had defied. “Eighty 
million people,” he repeated. “That’s a bunch 
for fair! Crazy?” He nodded and held up his 
hands. “I fought Tiger Burke,” he said; “put 

2 ' 


12 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

him out in the tenth; gave him ten pounds in 
weight, too. I thought that was tough odds, but 

eighty million to one Well, your dope is 

good and you win. I lose out. There's the 
phone over there. I guess you know what to 
do. Station 22 is the nearest. Oh, and Fll go 
nice and quiet. Just tell them you’ve got ^Skee- 
ter’ here and they’ll come a-running.” 

He threw back his head with a smile of boy- 
ish pride, for he knew his record — knew the de- 
light there would be among the bluecoats when 
he was brought in and up to the sergeant’s desk. 
But his face changed to a look of bewildered 
surprise at the priest’s next words. 

“If you think you ought to be arrested, my 
lad, better ring for the police yourself.” 

“What’s that,” cried Skeeter? “Listen here; 
ain’t you crowding the mourners? Ain’t you 
rubbing it in?” 

“You came in here yourself, didn’t you? I 
wasn’t a party to your midnight prowling. Have 
I mentioned the police? No! Then why ask 
me to ring the phone? You started all this, 
didn’t you? Yes! Well, then, why don’t you 
finish it?” 

Again the new point of view made the boy 
pause while he examined the proposition. Then 
he nodded. “All right. I’m game. I’ll come 
across. I never was a quitter.” 

He crossed the polished floor with a quick, 
nervous step and picked up the telephone book. 
“Fine,” he murmured, as he turned the leaves. 
“Old Mac’ll be at the desk and he’ll let a roar 
out of him when he sees me that’ll turn out the 


A Moulder of Men 


13 


reserves. ‘Who pinched you, Skeeter?’ he’ll say. 
‘Nobody/ I hands him back. ‘I just grabbed 
myself to save some of your hard worked cops 
the trouble.* ** 

His hand paused on a half turned leaf and 
his eyes widened. The priest had heard the 
faint sound, too; he turned to Skeeter. “Did 
you have company on this little visit to me?” he 
asked. 

Skeeter shook his head blankly. His ears, 
trained to register the slightest vibration had 
caught and defined the sound, a stealthy, care- 
ful step coming up the stairs. 

“I guess I won’t have to phone the station 
after all,” he said coolly. “That’s a fly cop com- 
ing up your stairs. He’s seen the open door and 
the light, and ” j 

The step was outside, on the landing. 

With a swift movement, the priest seized the 
cap from Skeeter’s head and pushed him into 
a chair facing his own at the table. Almost at 
the same time he restored the box of silver to 
its place, closed the sideboard doors, and, seat- 
ing himself in his armchair, raised his voice in 
an exposition of a line from the volume of Epic- 
tetus in his hand. “So you see, my lad, our an- 
cient and most honorable friend, Epictetus had 
quite the modern view of man and his duty, 
when he said ” 

The door swung open and Plainclothes Man 
McCoy stood on the threshold. It had tak«i 
some time for him to locate the sound that had 
halted him, but his face wore a triumphant air, 

“Father Kelly ” he began. 


14 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“Dear me, is it yourself, Mr. McCoy,” cried 
the priest heartily? And where did you springs 
from at this hour of the morning?” 

“Through your yard. Father, and up your 
back stairs!” panted McCoy, as he mopped his 
moist brow, with a not overly clean handker- 
chief. Then with a burst he told what he felt 
deserved commendation. “And why did I come? 
Because, Father Kelly, you have a burglar in 
your house.” 

To his utter amazement the priest laughed 
and wagged his head at him. “Go on out of 
that, McCoy, and don’t be having your jokes 
with a man of my age.” 

“But it is the truth. Father — I ” 

“Are you serious? Upon my word, I believe 
you are. See, now, what you say is impossible. 
‘And why?’ says you.” The priest smiled bland- 
ly. “Because, there’s only my little household 
sound asleep above us, and — oh, you, my young 
friend here. Yes, and we’re deep in a most in- 
teresting discussion of Epictetus. Did you ever 
read him, Mr. McCoy? No! Then you should. 
Thank you for your kindness and your trouble, 
but no burglar would ever think of bothering 
the likes of me, for everyone knows my house 
^ stands open night and day and all in it is at 
’ the service of any one who stands in need. Must 
you be going, Mr. McCoy? Good night. Let 
yourself out the front way. Thank you again. 
I hope Nora is better. She is! That’s fine. 
Good night!” 

As the street door closed on the amazed of- 
ficer something rose in Skeeter’s throat, held 


A Moulder of Men 


15 


him, gripped him, almost choked him. 

He staggered to his feet, clinging dizzily to 
the table’s edge. “Why did you do that?” he 
asked huskily. “McCoy was right! I am a 

burglar, a thief, a ” 

“You were,” said the priest kindly, laying his 
hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “But you’re not 
ROW. You are a man and a brother.” 


16 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER III ) 

At Daybreak 

W ITH head erect and a smile upon kis 
face, Skeeter went down the front steps 
that led to Father Kelly’s house. 

Day was breaking. The air was clear and 
wonderfully cool for the midsummer period. 
Carts and wagons had begun to rattle over the 
pavements, some bearing milk, others vegeta- 
bles — products of mysterious Long Island re- 
cesses, home of the truck farmer. 

A stout youth, precariously balanced upon a 
wagon step, measured out a quart of milk to 
a frowsy, red-haired woman in faded wrapper 
and down at heel slippers. He nodded blithely 
to Skeeter as he gathered up his reins and drove 
slowly away. The woman stopped in her fur- 
tive way back to the rickety tenement steps and 
then grinned amiably. 

“Hello, Skeeter,” she drawled, her cautious 
eyes watching both ends of the narrow street. 
“When did you hit the burg?” 

The boy paused and surveyed her a moment 
before recognition flamed in his eyes. “Well, if 
it ain’t Louve Lou,” he laughed. 

The woman made a swift gesture of caution 
and then spoke quickly, her lips barely moving, 
as is the way with those of the Underworld. 
“Nix,” she muttered. After a wary look up 
and down the quiet street, she went on: “My 
name is Mrs. Youngmans.” 


At Daybreak 


Skeeter smiled at the air of dignity with which 
she tried to clothe the words. He took off his 
cap ‘and bowed. “Mrs. Youngmans!’' As he 
straightened up he asked, “Jim under cover 

She nodded briefly, and shot a quick look up 
at the rambling rookery before them. “Fourth 
floor, number 17, on the door in chalk; better 
come up, kid, there's something doing. 

Half way up the steps she paused ; something 
in the boy's manner made her turn and look at 
him curiously. 

Association, habit, made Skeeter take one step 
to follow her. The next instant he flung him- 
self around on his heel with an angry exclama- 
tion. 

“Come on," said the woman. “This is a job 
worth while; it's a cleanup." 1 

Skeeter shook his head. “No," he said, slow- 
ly. “I've turned square, Lou !" 

“You've what?" 

“Turned square!" 

' “Since when?" 

' “About two hours ago." 

The woman laughed, noiselessly, as all the 
crooked fraternity learn to do. Just a quick 
opening of the mouth, a sudden inhalation of 
air, a twinkle in the eye, then the same expres- 
sion of reserve and caution. 

“Two hours ago, eh," she repeated. “Say, 
Bo, I’ll expect you back in two hours more 
ready for work!" 

“You won’t see me, Lou," and there was final- 
ity of decision in the boy's firm tone. “This 
is on the level and it goes !" 


18 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

She gave a contemptuous flirt with her head, 
then paused and looked at him with narrowing 
eyes. “Suppose you’ll blow, Mr. Square Guy. 
On your way to Headquarters now?” 

“Stop that, Lou!” He came to the foot of 
the rickety steps and looked up at her. “Say, 
do you suppose I’ll ever forget that time you 
and Jim took me in when I was down and out, 
sick, and wanted” out in little, old windy Chi? 
Do I look like that kind? 'Turned square,’ I 
says, and that goes, but I’d do a ten-year bit 
and never holler before I’d squeal on you or 
Jim I” 

The woman looked at him carefully for a 
moment, and relented. A half smile stole over 
her face. Over the low shed, on the street’s 
opposite side, the first streaks of dawn lighted 
her face and figure, touching it softly, gently, 
as a painter might his loved work. The new 
light brought out the firm contour of her not 
uncomely face; it made clear a curious, new 
look, almost wistful, longing, far back in her dull 
eyes. The street was quite deserted still and 
she risked another minute. 

“What turned you square?” 

“A man, Lou!” 

“A man? Say that’s funny; it’s usually a 
skirt.” 

“No, a man, a priest.” 

“A what?” 

“A priest, Lou ! No, I ain’t kidding. I mean 
it; a priest. I broke into his crib and he caught 
me, had me dead to rights and buffaloed. Then 
he let me go. I just been talking to him, and. 


At Daybreak 19> 

Lou, do you know what he told me? What you 
want, you get.” 

“Say that again, Skeeter !” 

“‘What you want, you get,* that’s what he 
said, Lou ; and he ought to know. ‘Why, there 
ain’t no such thing as luck in this world,’ he 
said. ‘You get what you want, if you only 
want it hard enough, and — and keep on want- 
ing it.’ ” 

“Are you stringing me, Kid?” 

“Do I look as though I v/as, Lou ?” 

“No^ you don’t! There’s something strange 
about you. I piped it the minute I put my lamps 
on you.” 

“What?” he asked a little anxiously 

“Don’t know,” she responded slowly, studying 
him with the close scrutiny of those whose wits 
are eternally pitted against society. “It’s a dif- 
ferent look about you somehow. Thought at 
first you’d made a big stake ” 

“I have, Lou ; I’ve got next to myself.” 

They eyed each other in silence for a long 
moment, then a window banged noisily above 
them. 

The woman gave a startled look toward the 
upper story of the tenement. “That’s Jim,” she 
said hurriedly. “Yes, I must go. He’ll think 
I’m pinched or ducked and left him.” 

Skeeter gripped her hand hard. “Tell Jim,” 
he said earnestly, “tell him not to be a fool a 
minute longer ; don’t let him, Lou ; there’s noth- 
ing in the crooked game for anyone. You and 
Jim are fighting eighty millions of people, figure 
out what chance you’ve got. Good-bye.” The 


20 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

door closed noiselessly upon her and the boy 
went up the little side street to the main artery 
of the East Side. 

It was broad day now and the roaring tide of 
busy city life was rising steadily with every 
minute as it passed. Dull, inert, sleeping, the 
town had been during the ebb hours of dark- 
ness, but now, with the dawn of a new day 
upon it, with the summer sun sending down vol- 
leys of warm and quickening beams, there was 
life, activity, movement, noise and bustle on every 
side. In the thoroughfare of the Bowery a 
ceaseless stream of wagons, drays, cabs, auto- 
mobiles, electric cars, vans flowed ceaselessly on 
and on. Hucksters, with wagons backed to the 
curb, cried their manifold wares with shrill, in- 
sistent cries ; itinerant peddlers, laden with every 
article needed by human beings, pushed their 
goods persuasively into the faces of the passers- 
by; here and there, the sinuous forms of China- 
men slunk furtively through the mass of human- 
ity; eyes half closed, hands buried in capacious 
sleeves, silent, inscrutable ; the age old, calm civ- 
ilization of the Orient jostled by the modern 
feverish hurry. 

And through it all there rang in Skeeter^s 
brain the phrase repeated to him by Father 
Kelly. “What you want, you will get — what 
you want, you will get.'^ 

He said the words over and over to himself, 
repeated them thoughtfully, anxiously, question- 
ingly, and when he stopped the half mechanical 
repetition, still he heard them. It seemed to him 
they were drummed by his heels upon the side- 


At Daybreak 


21 


'walk; he thought he heard them in a great dia- 
pason of overtones in the deep notes of the 
Bowery. 

wonder if it is really so?” he said to him- 
self, as he paused under an arch of the elevated. 
‘'What you want, you will get, eh? Well, Bo, 
I want — money! Oh, not a big wad, just a 
quiet piece of coin, and ” 

He stopped short his communing with won- 
der in his eyes, for his right hand, carelessly 
thrust into his jacket pocket, had found — some- 
thing, down in the further corner. Slowly he 
drew out his closed hand, opened it and looked. 

It was a five dollar bill. 

He ran it through his fingers, staring hard at 
it, almost doubting his eyes. It was a new five 
dollar bill, crackling pleasantly and companion- 
ably to his touch and pinned to one corner was 
a tiny strip of paper with words traced on it in 
a fine copper plate hand. 

“Don’t forget, dear lad!” 

A great wave of feeling swept over the boy’s 
consciousness. He stood silent, apart from that 
hurrying throng, back in the eddy under the ele- 
vated arch. Emotion had been a stranger to 
him until now. The hard life of the streets, the 
furtive eye, the stealthy step, the sidelong ap- 
praisement of possible plunder, the annexing of 
this and the hasty flight, all these things he 
knew; but kindness, helping hands, save that 
once from Jim and Lou ; words of affection, any 
interest in him, his ways or life, beyond the 
mere cupidity of a partner now and then, had 
never entered his narrow, squalid existence. He 


22 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


drew a deep, long, shuddering breath and telt 
once more something that gripped him. Then 
his face softened as he looked down at the 
note, and lines of resolution showed upon his 
face. 

Father Kelly had sown his seed at a venture, 
but it had taken firm root. The better self of 
the boy was awakened now. It sat erect in the 
saddle of his consciousness, held the reins and 
would direct the future course; the objective self 
that had so long misguided was in subjection 
and yielded absolutely. 

“Gee,” said Skeeter softly. He dashed his coat 
sleeve hastily across his eyes ; any display of real 
feeling on the Bowery always draws a curious 
crowd. So moving onward with the throng 
northward for perhaps the space of two city 
blocks, he turned aside into a quieter street, 
for he wanted time and space to think. One 
novel impression had followed another so quickly 
that he was wearied with the flood of sensations. 

“What you want, you will get!” The words 
seemed to shape themselves into the phrase now 
without his conscious effort. At last, half in 
answer to their ceaseless refrain, he spoke the 
thought in his mind. “Well, I want a job, and 
I want it bad.” 

He had paused almost in the middle of a 
crossing as he said the words. 

Two sharp, explosive toots of a horn, the 
grinding of brakes, suddenly and powerfully ap- 
plied, sounded directly behind him. He turned 
to find a long, low, rakish automobile within a 
scant yard of him. 


At Daybreak 


2B 

“When you have another day dream, or go 
into a trance, young man, never choose a street 
crossing; it is a bad habit/’ 

It was a cheery, manly face that looked at him 
over the hood of the auto. Black hair, athletic 
shoulders, eyes that looked straight at everybody 
and everything as they had looked for over thirty 
years. The voice had a vibrant quality of health, 
good humor. 

Skeeter began a confused apology for his 
heedlessness, but the other cut him short with 
a laugh. 

“All right,” he said, as he leaped from the 
car, of which he was the sole occupant, and 
took a firm hold on the starting crank, for his 
motor was dead. “All right, old man. Thank 
your lucky stars that it is a new car and that 
my chauffeur left me two days ago. If he had 
been driving, well, you’d have been on your way 
to the hospital now — or kingdom come,” and 
he gave a quick heave at the crank. 

No explosion followed in the cylinders. Again 
and again he renewed the muscular effort, but 
with no result. 

Skeeter expected an explosion of wrath with 
himself as the storm center, but none came. He 
stepped forward from the sidewalk and spoke a 
little timidly to the man. 

“Mind if I try to start her. Mister?” 

“Mind,” replied the perspiring owner. “Mind? 
Young man, this crank is all your own. I’ll 
just sit down quietly and watch you work.” He 
perched upon a hydrant nearby, lighted a cig- 
arette and fanned himself with his leather cap. 
“Go as far as you can !” 


M Father Kelly of the Rosary 

In the unwritten pages of Skeeter’s life, there 
were paragraphs of motor history that the 
police would have eagerly devoured, and acted 
upon the information therein contained with 
promptitude and dispatch. The experience was 
of value to him now, however darkly it had been 
gained; steadily and thoroughly he went over 
the car. 

‘‘Crawl under it,^' chaffed the owner from his 
hydrant seat. “Oh, please crawl under it. I 
would like to see someone besides myself in that 
idiotic position. Go on; be a good fellow and 
crawl under it!” 

But Skeeter shook his head gravely. Then 
his hand located the trouble; a quick turn of 
the handle and the six cylinders leaped into vi- 
brant, throbbing life. Gently he drew back the 
spark lever and closed the throttle, until the loud 
roar of the motor faded to a gentle, caressing 
purr of contentment, then he turned to the 
owner, who had watched his skillful manipula- 
tion, with an observant eye. 

“Guess you’re all right now,” he said. “She’s 
a peach all right. Sorry I stalled you and thank 
you for not hitting me.” 

“All right,” replied the autoist, as he took 
his seat, and then, with his hand on the low 
speed lever, he paused. “What’s your name,” he 
inquired. 

“Ske began the boy, and then checked 

himself sharply. No, he was going straight now. 
He was done with that crooked name. But so 
unused was he to his own that it took a moment 
for him to quicken recollection. “Lee Martin I” 


At Daybreak 85 

he answered at last and felt with a thrill of sat- 
isfaction that he was looking straight into the 
kindly eyes of the questioner. 

‘‘Lee Martin/’ repeated- the man. “Well, 
mine’s Bruce Wilton; here’s my card. You’ll 
excuse me, but you look as though you wanted 
a job. Drop around!” The clutch gripped eas- 
ily, the car moved on the first speed, then, with 
a whirr of the wheels it was gone. 

Lee Martin stood looking after it, the small 
bit of white cardboard in his hand. 

“What you want, you will get,” he said slowly. 
“Gee!” 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER IV 

A Morning in Wall Street 

J OHN EVARTS, general manager for Bruce 
Wilton, stood discreetly aside as his em- 
ployer came through the outer office with a 
rush, as though to make up for the time he had 
lost. Evarts was a tall, pallid individual with 
parchment skin and a cold blue eye. He might 
have been any age to the observer, but his close 
friends had heard him admit, with his peculiar 
dry cough and a nervous twirl at the sparse 
goatee on his nether lip, that he had passed fifty. 

*"Yes, Evarts, I know Pm late,” said Wilton as 
he tossed his leather cap into a corner and deftly 
slipped out of his linen duster. ‘‘Only don’t 
scold, old man, not my fault. Thank you, Ike,” 
to the Hebraic office boy who obligingly hung 
up the coat and rescued the cap from a waste 
paper basket where it had fallen. “Thank you 
and skip. Now, Evarts,” as the door closed on 
the boy, “half an hour before the Exchange 
opens, we’ll talk quick. Any news?” 

Evarts twirled his goatee thoughtfully and 
took a step nearer Bruce. 

“Iowa Central,” he said slowly with an apolo- 
getic cough. 

“Yes, well,” Wilton leaned back in his desk 
chair and eyed his manager. 

“Have you seen the tape, Mr. Wilton ?” nodded 
Bruce. 

“Yes. Just a flash on my way in from West- 
chester; 64, eh?” 


37 


A Morning in Wall Street 

Evarts nodded. His long prehensile fingers 
took a new hold on the scanty goatee and he 
leaned over the ornate mahogany desk. 

“Mr. Wilton,” he said slowly; “Fve bought 
and sold on the Exchange floor for you five 
years. I’ve never questioned you once in that 
time. But now I want to ask one thing.” He 
paused and drew a deep breath. “Do you know 
exactly what you are doing?” 

Bruce leaned back in his comfortable chair 
and laughed, 

“Upon my word, Evarts, you are human after 
all. You know I’d begun to think you were a 
fish — ^no blood in your veins — ^but now — ^well, I 
swear, you old ruffian, I really believe you’re 
worried about me.” 

Evarts did not smile. He nodded grimly. 

“I am,” he said, “because — well, it seems to 
me you’re taking awful chances. You don’t know 
* — no one knows — the exact issue of Iowa 
Central stock. Legal complications, juggling of 
the books, make it impossible for anyone to 
know exactly.” 

He paused and ran a lean forefinger over his 
thin lips. 

“And so I say,” he went on, “go slow.” 

“All right, Evarts,” laughed Bruce; “we’ll go 
just this slow. Grab every share you can track 
to its lair. I figure that a thousand more gives 
me control, then we’ll let the papers have the 
news and you’ll see it climb — soar — like an aero- 
plane with ninety horsepower behind it; only,” 
and his voice grew grave, “not a word — not a 
whisper.” 


%S Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Evarts drew back from the desk sharply. *^Mr. 
Wilton,-' he said. In the tone there was a hint 
of gentle reproof. 

*‘Oh, I know, I know, Evarts. The Sphinx in 
Egypt is a babbling phonograph compared to 
you, but be careful. You know there has been 
a leak in this office." 

His manager nodded slowly. 

*‘Yes," he replied, ''and a bad one.” 

Bruce clipped the end from a cigar viciously. 

"Cost me twenty thousand dollars, and the 
worst of it is, weVe never been able to trace the 
dark skinned gentleman who was concealed in 
that particular woodpile.” 

"That's why I say now go slow,” said Evarts. 

"Don’t worry,” laughed Bruce genially ; "we’ll 
hope the^ Ethiopian is satisfied with the harm 
he did us that time. Only not a whisper about 
Iowa Central. I haven’t told Vera even.” 

There was a cadence of gentleness in his voice 
as he spoke the name, a lingering tenderness 
quite out of place in a sordid stock broker's of- 
fice. 

Evarts took a step nearer and his thin lips 
came as near a smile as their straight lines would 
permit. 

"Mrs. Wilton is well, I hope?” he asked. 

'' "Well and beautiful, and so charming that 
sometimes I look at her and wonder why she 
allows me about the house. Two years married, 
Evarts, and not even the suspicion of a discord- 
ant note.” He rose from his chair and paced 
the length of the office, his fingers tearing open 
a letter he had taken from his desk. 


A Morning in Wall Street 




“I tell you, old man, it was a lucky day for 
me when I went West three years ago, and 
you, you old villain, tried to keep me from tak- 
ing the trip.” 

“I didn’t know, Mr. Wilton, that you would 
meet Mrs. W.” 

“That’s as near a humorous remark as I ever 
knew you to make ; why, you ” 

He stopped suddenly and looked searchingly 
at the open letter in his hand. 

Evarts had taken a discreet step toward the 
outer office, when Wilton’s voice stopped him. 

“Evarts,” he said, “make a memo that I’ll 
want seventy-five thousand dollars next Tues- 
day.” 

His manager methodically noted the amount 
and date in a well worn book. 

“Of course, you wouldn’t ask what it’s for,” 
laughed Bruce. “Was curiosity left out of your 
composition ?” 

“I’d hardly presume, Mr. Wilton,” began 
Evarts, but Bruce cut him short. 

“I’ll tell you anyhow. It’s to build a chapel.” 

Evarts’ pencil paused in the middle of a word 
and he almost gasped. 

“A what?” he stammered. 

His employer leaned against his desk and 
laughed. 

“Why, you old scout,” he roared, clapping the 
astonished Evarts on the shoulder, “you are hu- 
man, after all. That gasp proves it. Yes, I’m 
going to build a chapel.” 

“Where?” asked the astonished manager. 

“See,” returned Bruce, “see, you’re growing 


30 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


more human every minute. That’s the first time 
you ever asked a question from curiosity. Where ? 
Out in Westchester.” 

“But I thought — that is — I ” 

“You thought! You know, I’m not a believer 
in religion. I’m a materialist. Soul, spirit, 
they’re just words to me. I’m here, Bruce Wil- 
ton, alive, doing business, trying to be decent, 
living and letting others live. Some day when 
life goes out it’s all over — no more Bruce Wil- 
ton. Yes ” he went on seeing the question 

in the other’s eyes, “but this is sentiment. I’m 
building this chapel for two reasons. One,” he 
held up a finger to emphasize his point, “Vera, 
she does believe, bless her ; two, there’s an old 
friend of mine, my tutor when I entered Yale. 
A great man, Evarts, a big man, though he 
doesn’t suspect it. I’ve found him out and the 
chapel is for him. Here’s a letter from the 
Archbishop of New York, giving me permission 
to build this chapel. Here are the plans. Put 
Williams on them at once. Better get bids' in 
next week. Now, off you go, Evarts, and gel 
me on the wire if anything new turns up.” 

“Let’s see, now,” said Bruce when the door 
had closed on his manager. He turned to his 
stenographer and dictated busily for twenty min- 
utes. Those who knew him complained that 
Bruce Wilton never really worked, he simply 
ran at it and threw it out of his way. 

A timid knock sounded on the solid oaken 
door, just as his secretary tucked her pencil into 
some mysterious recess of her back hair and 
rose to go. 


A Morning in Wall Street 31 

“Ah,” said Wilton, as the door swung open in 
response to his sharp, “Come,” and he saw his 
friend of the street crossing standing there. 

“You didn’t waste any time, did you?” ' 

“I didn’t have any to waste,” replied the boy. 

“All right. Miss Marvin,” and as the stenog- 
rapher departed with a backward look at the 
visitor, Wilton turned and subjected him to a 
long scrutiny. 

“Will I do?” asked Skeeter quietly? 

“Knew I was sizing you up, eh?” 

“I thought you couldn’t be studying the cut 
of my clothes,” replied Skeeter slowly. 

Wilton laughed and clapped the boy on the 
shoulder. 

“Yes, I think you’ll fit in where I mean to 
put you. That’s out in Westchester, my coun- 
try place, just moved and things are in seven- 
teen different kinds of a tangle. Know the roads 
about here?” 

Skeeter nodded, his eyes following every 
movement of the man before him. 

“All right, then, you hop into my car ” 

The phone on the desk rang sharply and Wil- 
ton caught it up, sitting easily on the corner near 
him. 

“Yes,” he said, and then with the same pe- 
culiar softening of his tone, “That you, Vera? 
How do I know? You don’t suppose any old 
phone wire could disguise your blessed voice so 
I wouldn’t know. What. Oh, Charley’s arrived, 
eh? Glad of that. Looks bad? Sorry. We’ll 
cheer him up. And say, dear, your new chaffeur 
will be right out Who? Why ” He put 


32 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


his hand over the mouthpiece and smiled at 
Skeeter. ‘‘Listen, now, Kid. I’m going to send 
a description of you over the wire to your new" 
mistress.” 

j He dropped his hand and went on smiling 
amiably at the boy. 

j: “Well, he’s about nineteen; not a beauty, but 
[a good face. Yes, I nearly ran over him this 
morning. That’s how I met him. Sending him 
out with the car. Could he call for — what’s her 
name? Lesura! Good Lord, is that hayseed 
really coming? I beg your pardon. Of course, 
he can. This kid can do anything. Good-bye, 
dear. I’ll be out on the 4:10. Yes, good-bye.” 

He hung up the receiver as though he broke 
the electrical connection with regret, then turned 
briskly to Skeeter. 

“Well, kid, you’re on; twenty-five a week and 
here’s your directions to get there.” 

He rapidly penciled a few lines on a card and 
handed it to the boy. 

“And, oh — I nearly forgot. Stop, on your 
way, at the Grand Central and pick up Miss 
Lesura Watkins, from Bellows Falls, Vermont.” 

“Miss who?” asked Skeeter, undecided 
whether this was a joke from his new employer 
or some trial of his adaptability. 

Wilton laughed. 

“Lesura Watkins, isn’t that a name to make 
you smile? She’s a girl from Vermont,” he 
went on. “Up where Mrs. Wilton passed the 
most of last summer. Coming down now to, 
well, work for Mrs. W. It’s one of her experi- 


33 


A Morning in Wall Street 

ments — ^the kind she's always making. Train's 
due at 12:10; better be on your way." 

Skeeter paused, with the knob of the door 
in his hand. Here was a chance, but was he 
sure of himself; ought he to take this position 
without 

Wilton's voice broke into his meditations 
sharply, but not unkindly. 

^‘What is it, kid?" he asked. 

The boy turned and put his back against the 
door. He clutched his cap in his right hand. 

“Mr. Wilton," he said slowly and evenly. “It 
is mighty good of you, but there’s one thing you 
ought to know. I’ve been a crook." 

It was said now and he felt better. He drew 
a long deep breath and waited. 

“Ah," said Wilton slowly. Then he leaned 
back in his chair and lighted a fresh cigar. 

“My dear fellow," he went on, “I take long 
chances every day in my business, one more or 
one less doesn’t matter. I’m going to take a 
chance on you now. What you have been doesn’t 
interest me; what you are does, and I’m gam- 
bling that you’re par value and a gilt edged se- 
curity. On your way." 

Skeeter made no protestations — something 
seemed to keep him from doing so. Wilton’s 
tone was bracing ; there was life and human feel- 
ing in it. The boy nodded, already he under- 
stood this big fellow who enjoyed life and the 
things that were to be done. 

“This young lady," he asked, “how'll I know 
her?" 

Wilton smiled over the big cigar. 


14 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“Well,” he said, “just meet that train and 
pick a short, round girl, with a wondering stare 
and a Bellows Falls, Vermont, look in her eyes ; 
don’t forget the name — Lesura Watkins — and in 
Heaven’s name get the right one. She’s the 
most serious, the saddest thing that ever hit New 
York. If you make her laugh you get a prize. 
Off with you !” 

A bob of the head and Skeeter was gone. 

Wilton smoked reflectively for a moment, then 
knocked the ash from his cigar and smiled. 

“Been a crook, eh? But stands up, looks 
you in the eye, and, by George, goes after a 
girl he has never seen without questioning; just 
salutes and goes after it. Ah, somehow I think 
that kid will make good.” 


The Girl from Bellows Falls 


35 


CHAPTER V 

The Girl from Bellows Falls 

A S he brought the long, low, racy looking 
car to rest before the Grand Central Sta- 
tion, Skeeter was conscious of a curious 
elation of feeling. 

“Gee,*^ he said, as he shut oflF the power and 
climbed to the pavement. “Gee, it sure does 
make a feller feel good to turn square.” 

He found himself whistling a popular air of 
the vaudeville theaters and stopped in blank sur- 
prise; whistling had been a lost art with him. 
Then his errand in the station came to him and 
he smiled. 

“And I’m to find a girl I never saw, pipe that ; 
and take her to Westchester ; wouldn’t that send 
you to your low speed?” 

It was the noon hour when the agile and fret- 
ful commuter was already in the city, and the 
huge station was deserted, save for a few scat- 
tering groups bound on longer journeys. 

Skeeter looked at the train sheet, saw the Ver- 
mont express was scheduled as on time, and so 
made his way out to the numbered gate where 
it might be expected. The day was growing 
more sultry, and the trainmen showed it in their 
lack lustre eyes and languid movements. Little 
knots of people came through the swinging 
doors that led to the main waiting room. A fast 
express for the far West was pulling out amid 
the merry shouts of a party of young people, 


35 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

who showered rice and old shoes upon a hand- 
some young fellow and a charming girl, as they 
stood on the observation platform of a brass 
railed and over-decorated private car. 

Somehow the world looked bright to Skeeter. 

He waved his cap to the vanishing wedding 
couple, then became amused at himself. 

^Tm trying to break into society,’* he said with 
a laugh. 

Someone touched him lightly on the shoulder 
and he turned quickly. It had always held a 
nameless terror for him in the old days. 

**Mr. Martin, isn’t it?” said a pleasant voice 
with a friendly ring. 

The boy looked up quickly and found Father 
Kelly facing him with a smile. 

“Of course, if I’m wrong,” said the priest 
chuckling quietly, “sure I’ll apologize, but you 
bear a close resemblance to Mr. Lee Martin, a 
friend of mine.” 

Skeeter caught the muscular hand extended 
him and shook it vigorously. 

“You bet I’m Lee Martin and that friend 
stuff goes double, Father Kelly, and, say, your 
dope was all right on that wanting thing. Thank 
you for the five spot. Say, I got a job, too !” 

“Well, well, you don’t tell me?” Father Kelly’s 
voice was vibrant with hearty friendliness. “I’m 
on my way to my new quarters,” he added. 
“There’s no church. I have to preach in a tent. 
Tell me, do you think the New Yorks can beat 
that piratical crowd from the smoky confines of 
Pittsburg today?” 

“Gee, are you a fan?” asked Skeeter in as- 


The Girl from Bellows Falls 


37 


tonishment. A clergyman to him had always 
meant gloom and sighs, talks of a sulphurous 
future and dire warnings of wrath and punish- 
ment. 

Father Kelly laughed heartily. It was good 
to see him; his whole nature seemed to expand 
and enter into the joy of the moment. 

‘‘My boy,” he said, “I’m worse than that; 
“I’m the manager of the Walla Walla’s on the 
East Side. When my boys played the Cherry 
Hills and Befify Evans was on third, two out 
and the score a tie, faith, I had to hold on to 
myself or I’d have gone straight up into the 
zenith like a comet or a new kind of airship.” 

“I thought you lived on the East Side,” said 
Skeeter. 

“Well, lad, I was stationed there for five years 
and when I was ordered to my open air parish, 
as I call it, the boys and girls set up a hullabal- 
loo. Faith, you’d have thought the peace of the 
United States was threatened. So to prevent riot 
and bloodshed,” he winked gravely at Skeeter; 
“I come in every now and then and keep my 
old quarters here in town.” 

“And sometimes late callers keep you up all 
night, don’t they, Father Kelly?” The boy asked 
the question a little shamefaced in manner. He 
was thinking of the night just passed and all it 
meant to him. It had just dawned on him that 
a sleepless night might mean fatigue and loss of 
nervous force in a man of sixty. 

Father Kelly laughed and clapped his friend 
on the shoulder. 

“Late or early, ’tis all the same, and when 


23 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


they come very late and stay long, sure, Fm all 
the happier, for it means one more friend in 
this old world ; and friends — well — you can’t 
have too many of them. Aha, there’s my train.” 
He backed away from Skeeter toward the gate 
and waved his hand. 

‘‘Come out and see me,” he cried; “the place 
is Westchester,” and he vanished down the long 
platform. 

“That’s funny,” said Skeeter; and then every- 
thing but his immediate duty was swept from 
his mind as he heard the megaphone of the 
trainman announce the arrival of the “Vermont 
express, track seventeen.” 

He pushed his way through the little throng 
of people gathered about the gate. 

“No,” he thought, “I won’t stand right close 
to the entrance, for then I’ll only get one flash 
at this bunch. Me for that long distance thing 
and the eagle eye.” 

So he took his stand facing the coming crowd 
from the newly arrived train, where each pas- 
senger must face him as they came up the plat- 
form. 

It was the usual medley of personalities that 
came from the train. There was the nervous 
man unused to traveling, a little bemused by 
the noises of the big city; the excited woman 
who looked upon the journey as an emotional 
tragedy and felt in her heart that John wouldn’t 
be there to meet her ; the shy Miss greeted ten- 
derly and somewhat over decorously by the cal- 
low youth ; the plain wife and mother, strug- 
gling with a baby in arms and two children 


The Girl from Bellows Falls 


39 


clinging furtively to her skirts; the slick trav- 
eling salesman, half of wliose existence was spent 
on trains; the small town merchant, the modern 
young woman, the athletic college man, all were 
there, and all came through the gateway smil- 
ing or frowning, nervous or calm, perspiring or 
cool. 

Skeeter looked them over with a calmly ap- 
praising eye and shook his head. 

“Nothing like a Rube there, he muttered. 
“Not in skirts, anyway.^’ 

He stood a moment longer, until the last stray 
passenger had departed and the platform was 
deserted; until the guard was closing the heavy 
iron gate. 

“Did I get this train wrong?” he asked the 
guard, a stoiid, heavy faced man with heavy 
shoulders and a broad, red face. “Was it the 
Vermont express?” 

“Sure thing,” growled the guard and gave an- 
other pull at the refractory gate. 

The boy turned away, and then gave a last 
look down the deserted platform. 

Some one was descending the steps of the last 
passenger coach. Skeeter saw first the hem of a 
light dress, then a foot, and a girl swung her- 
self to the platform. 

She was rather undersized and given to a not 
unpleasing plumpness. Her face, round and ex- 
pansive, held an expression of absolute calm. 
The hat of straw was trimmed with a collection 
of flowers that nature in her wildest moments 
never conceived. A long linen duster covered 
her completely, and one sturdy hand grasped a 
carpet sack. 


40 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Skeeter gave one look and paused. 

‘‘Bellows Falls,” he said; “Bellows Falls or 
I’m an Indian in Buffalo Biirs Wild West 
Show.” 

The girl made her way slowly toward the 
gate. There was deliberation in her every step. 
She seemed to put one foot down and to con- 
sider carefully the next step before she took it. 
Confronted by the closed gate she paused. There 
was no change in her expression, she merely 
stopped and gave her mind to this new prob- 
lem. 

The guard moved forward and laid his hand 
on the gate. 

“Want to get through?” he asked with a half 
yawn. Skeeter stood discreetly a-ide. 

The girl nodded ; evidently she believed in the 
economy of speech. 

As the heavy gate rolled back she walked 
through, her eyes steadily looking straight 
ahead. 

“Miss,” said the guard, waggishly. “YouTe 
much obliged aren’t you?” 

Skeeter grinned appreciatively and the guard 
was satisfied; someone had laughed at his joke. 
He closed the gate and leaned on it, watching 
the retreating form of the girl, then a sudden 
thought struck him. 

“Darned if that guy ain’t going to speak to 
her. Well, what do you know about that?” 

“I guess there’s only one way to do this,” 
said Skeeter, reflectively, as he followed the bil- 
lowing linen duster and the carpet sack. “Jump 
right at it.” 


The Girl from Bellows Falls 


41 


And he did. As the girl paused at the sta- 
tion's entrance, Skeeter took off his cap and 
came near her. 

"‘Miss Watkins ?" he said with a bow that sur- 
prised himself. 

The girl stopped short, then turned and sur- 
veyed him calmly. The silence was portentious ; 
it made the boy nervous and he hastened to add 
quickly, “Miss Lesura Watkins — isn’t it?” 

A long pause and the girl did not speak or 
move. 

Skeeter shuffled from one foot to the other 
under the steady, unwinking gaze. Then he 
ventured again, somewhat more timidly: 

“Miss Lesura Watkins of Bellows Falls, Ver- 
mont ?” 

The girl broke her silence at last. She took 
a step away from him, gripped her carpet bag 
tighter and said very distinctly: 

“Police !” 

“W-what!” faltered Skeeter. 

“Police,” said the girl in a somewhat higher 
tone. 

“Hush,” said Skeeter, visions of all sorts of 
fearful happenings going through his mind. 
“Wait, hold on! What are you calling the po- 
lice for?” 

“Because,” replied the girl, with no trace of 
anger or any other emotion in her face, “my 
pa said to me when I left Bellows Falls, he said, 
‘Lesura, when you get to New York, if any 
feller comes up and speaks to you, call the 
police.’ ” 

“Ye«,” returned Skeeter, humbly, “but I--—" 


42 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

^Never mind if the feller knows your name/ ” 
the girl went on, “ *and all your relations ; never 
mind if he has been to Bellows Falls, knows 
the postmaster and used to live up on the hill. 
Call the police; that’s the only way. Call the 
police, or you’ll come home with another gold 
brick to add to my collection. I’ve been to New 
York three times and I know.’ ” 

She paused, drew a deep breath and, regard- 
ing Skeeter with a steady, unwinking stare, 
called again: 

‘Tolice !” 

“Hold on,” said Skeeter. “Don’t do that yet. 
Wait a minute.” 

“My pa said,” replied the girl, “ 'the longer 
vou wait, the more dangerous it gets in New 
York.f’ Police!” 

Skeeter saw a well remembered blue uniform 
pushing its way through the crowded sidewalk, 
its occupant glancing from side to side as though 
uncertain of the exact location of the call for 
aid, and knew he must act quickly. 

“Listen here,” he said, “you got me wrong. 
No, wait! See, here’s a card from Mr. Wilton, 
Mr. Bruce Wilton. See, there’s his automobile. 
I’m to take you out to his place — to Mrs. Wil- 
ton. Mrs. Vera and Say, wake up. I’m 

talking to you.” 

And then seeing in the close approach of the 
blue coat a necessity for prompt action, Skeeter 
manfully seized her by the arm and bundled her 
into the tonneau. He slammed the door on her, 
cranked his engine and, throwing in his speed 
lever, was off up Forty-second Street and into 


The Girl from Bellows Falls 


43 


Fifth Avenue at a pace that drove traffic drivers 
to loud profanity. 

The next fifteen minutes were claimed by the 
car, for it was the crush hour on New York’s 
showiest avenue. Everything” on wheels was 
out, from the plodding one-horse rig to the four- 
in-hand. A steady stream of vehicles passed 
and repassed each other; the clatter of hoofs, 
tooting of horns, shouts from the drivers to un- 
wary pedestrians combined to rack the nerves 
of the inexperienced. Perspiring policemen at 
the crossings waved their hugh white gloves, blew 
whistles and in various other ways combined to 
make the racket more bewildering. 

Skeeter gave very little thought to his passen- 
ger, every nerve was alert to steer his car 
through the tangled mass ; but when Fifty-ninth 
Street was safely passed, he pushed back his 
cap with a sigh of relief and stole a hurried 
look behind him. 

ISIiss Lesura Watkins had not moved. She 
sat rigid, clasping her faded carpet bag close to 
her side, while on her face was a look of utter 
vacancy. 

Skeeter shook his head over the steering 
wheel. The ways of femininity were always 
strange to him, but the present example simply 
bewildered him. 

“She nearly gets me pinched for a bunko 
man,” he muttered; “makes me kidnap her to 
get her away and now goes into a trance, or is 
she asleep, I wonder?” 

Another glance backward convinced him that 
his charge was wide awake: there was no sleep 

4 


45 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

visible in the round, unwinking stare with which 
she surveyed him and the landscape. 

They were out in the country now. Brick 
walls had given place to charming cottages ; well 
kept lawns; leafy groves. Sultry though the 
day had turned out to be, there was a cool breeze 
which tempered the heat. Now and then, through 
breaks in the wall of cottages, could be seen the 
Hudson thronged with pleasure craft of all kinds 
and sizes, for this was a gala day of some sort 
on the river. Skeeter, with Bruce Wilton’s card 
of directions on the steering wheel, felt a love 
of life and the day spring up within him until 
it overflowed in a whistle of sheer good fellow- 
ship. 

“Mister?” 

The sound was so faint that at first the boy 
doubted if his ears were not playing him some 
trick. No, for it came again; this time some- 
what louder and more insistent. 

“Please, Mister?” 

“Yes,” replied Skeeter; “yes, ma’am.” 

“If you please, could I ride on the front seat? 
I’m all alone here and some one might crawl 
up behind ; my pa said I’d have to be awful care- 
ful in New York.” 

Skeeter grinned, but replied instantly. 

“Sure; on the front seat, why not?” And 
throwing out his clutch he brought the car to 
a stop with its engine throbbing rhythmically. 

Lesura climbed out of the tonneau and labori- 
ously and seriously mounted to the seat beside 
that of the driver. She still clutched her carpet 
bag, and though Skeeter put out his hand to help 


The Girl from Bellows Falls 4^ 

her with it, she drew back and shook her head 
soberly. 

'T don’t know you well enough yet,” she said 
stolidly. 

Skeeter smiled at this as being a good joke, 
but there was no answering response from 
Lesura. 

“Excuse me,” he said, as he threw in his 
clutch and the car moved on. “That wasn’t my 
hand, no; it was just a dream!” 

Lesura studied this effort at a pleasantry as 
she did everything, with a tremendously serious 
expression. 

“A day like this,” said Skeeter, feeling the 
need of conversation, “just makes you feel good 
all over. Smell the flowers, and see the kids 
playing, rolling in the grass, and that brook gur- 
gling, and the good old sun just shining down 
on us all and laughing because he’s happy to 
see us all doing well. Makes a fellow want to 
yell, don’t you think so?” 

“You can’t dream in the daytime,” replied 
Lesura. “Can you?” i 

“What’s that?” And Skeeter nearly shied' 
the car off the road with the start he gave at 
this unexpected answer. 

“You can’t dream in the daytime, can you?” 

“You can’t — say, please what is this? What 
are you handing me, Miss Watkins?” 

“What you said.” 

“I said?” 

“Yes, Mister. I tliought you put your hand 
out to help me and I said ” 

“Ah, I see, you’ve been doping out the remark 
I made.” 


46 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Lesura stared. “Can you dream in the day- 
time?” 

“Sure you can. Why, down at Sheepshead, 
when the ponies are running, every one dreams. 
Yes, indeed, Miss Watkins; dreams he knows 
which pony it is, and then ting-a-ling-ting-a-ling- 
ling-lingy ! That’s a correct imitation of an alarm 
clock — and the dreamer wakes up. Yes, and 
walks home.” 

Skeeter threw back his head and laughed with 
keen enjoyment of his own joke. He turned 
to observe the smile he felt at least was his due 
from Lesura. 

None came; her face gazed blankly at him. 

In his lighter moments, with money in his 
pockets and no besetting fear of the police to 
vex him, Skeeter was known as good company. 
He had a quaint, half serious way of saying 
absurd things that never failed to raise a laugh. 
The unwinking, serious stare with w^hich Lesura 
favored his comic effort made him feel uncom- 
fortable. 

Evidently she concentrated the full power of 
her mind upon what he had said, for lines of 
mental effort appeared between her eyes. 

“Why should they dream when the ponies 
are running?” she asked. “And why should any 
one set an alarm if the ponies are running? 
Seems to me the hired man was careless to let 
the ponies run and then go to sleep, and if any 
one let the ponies run, why he ought to walk 
home; but what was he sleeping for away from 
home, and whose ponies were they?” 


The Girl from Bellows Falls 47, 

She paused a moment for breath and then 
went on. 

“Now, if the ponies 

“Nix,’’ gasped Skeeter, in his excitement nar- 
rowly missing a lamp post and bringing the car 
back into the road with a jerk. “Nix! Don’t 
hand me any more; can’t you see I’m out?” 

Dead silence ensued. Lesura was consider- 
ing this new point of view. 

“Why, yes,” she ventured. “We’re both out, 
aren’t we?” And she allowed her eyes to wan- 
der slowly up at the blue sky and then at the 
hedgerows on each side of the smooth, well oiled 
roadway. 

“Help!” It was all Skeeter could say. 

“How?” she replied, instantly turning to him. 

Skeeter bent over his wheel and laughed. He 
knew now that he was dealing with rustic inno- 
cence and a matter of fact mind. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” he said, soberly. 

“Not if I know it,” Lesura returned quite 
anxiously. 

“Yes you will be. Much more of this and 
I’ll die.” And then Bruce Wilton’s words came 
back to Skeeter. “If you make her laugh you 
get a prize.” He grinned appreciatively. “The 
boss knew what he was stacking me up against,” 
he said half aloud. 

And meanwhile the road was leading them 
on and on, forever disclosing new beauties. 

Houses were farther apart now, were larger, 
more ornate. Some towered high with min- 
arets and cupolas; others spread a huge bulk 
over the greensward. It was as though each 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


!^8 


owner had tried to outdo his neighbor in odd 
design and costly finish. *‘Homes of the no- 
veau riche,” the keen observer would have said 
land added a cross index of further informa- 
tion as to the sources of the money supply. 
[Pork here, chewing gum there, a patent biscuit 
to be met with on every luncheon table, or a 
pink pill warranted to cure all ills. 

Skeeter’s mind, not given to subtle analysis, 
merely placed them all in one common category, 
‘‘a bunch with money to burn.” 

And now the road rising almost imperceptibly 
by easy grades ran along the brow of a hill 
Overlooking the Hudson. Soon, obeying his 
card, he made a sharp turn to the right and 
coasted down a gentle rise through a little vil- 
lage. Just beyond were heavy iron gates and 
wrought high up in heavy letters appeared the 
name of the place, “Eden.” 

Skeeter threw out his clutch and sat looking 
up at the single word. 

“This is the place,” he said. Then he drew 
a deep breath and read the word once more, 
“Eden.” 


Within the Gates of Eden 


4 ^ 


CHAPTER VI 
Within the Gates of Eden 
HE tall, handsome man, puffing lazily at a 



cigarette in the loggia of Bruce Wilton’s 


country place, sprang to his feet as he 
heard the swish of silken skirts in the hall. 

“Knew it was you, Ken ward,” laughed Vera 
Wilton as she came forward with her hand out 
frankly. 

He looked down at her, as he took her hand, 
from his superior four inches in height and 
laughed. 

“Mind reading or telepathy?” he queried. 

“Neither; just common sense. ‘Gentleman to 
see you; wouldn’t give his name.’ That’s what 
Lesura said. Now there’s really only one gen- 
tleman who pops in on us like that, and his 
name is Kenward Wright.” She perched her- 
self on the loggia’s marble railing and laughed 
at him through a spray of roses. 

It was late in the summer afternoon, and the 
westering sun’s rays filtered through the riot 
of vines and roses, bathing her figure in a soft 
amber light. 

Kenward took a step backward and smiled. 

* “I wish,” he said, slowly, “I were a painter 
chap, V era. I’d put you imperishably upon can- 
vas just as you are now.” 

Vera laughed heartily. “Bruce is always mak- 
ing threats of canvasing me, but I tell him the 
poor artist would have a task. You know I 


50 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


never could sit still long enough. How did you 
happen to drop in on us, and is your descent to 
be a long one and — oh, dear, tell me all about 
it.’’ 

Kenward drew a deep armchair nearer and 
sat loosely on its arm. He was tall and fair, the 
direct antithesis of Bruce Wilton. In his tone 
there was always a dull, metallic ring as though 
the words responded to some inner vibration. 

*‘There isn’t much to tell,” he replied, smiling 
up at Vera’s alert, eager face. just happened 
to be in town with a little time to spare, and 
thought I’d look you up. Haven’t seen you since 
you became Mrs. Bruce Wilton, have I?” 

"‘No,” said Vera, thoughtfully, “You didn’t 
come to our wedding, Kenward.” 

He shook his head and felt for his cigarette 
case. 

“Why, Kenward?” 

The smoking tray was on a small, low table 
on the opposite side of the loggia. Kenward 
rose and took a match deliberately from the sil- 
ver holder. 

“Hate weddings,” he said as the flame caught 
the end of his cigarette. 

“Not my wedding, Ken!” 

He paused and looked at her over the flam- 
ing bit of wood. ^ 

“All weddings.” He tossed the match away 
and came nearer. “Lot of fuss and bother,” 
he went on. “Bridesmaids, silly lot; best man, 
always in a blue funk; crowd of idiotic people 
staring; wedding march; flowers and — then aft- 
erwards — reception, wedding breakfast and, oh, 


Within the Gates of Eden 51 

Lord, what not ! Much better to say to the girl : 
‘Will you have me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘All right, I’ll have 
you.’ Go away, and say, yes, we’re married.” 

Vera swung herself around on the coping and 
gasped. 

“You anarchist,” she said. “You destroyer of 
all our institutions. Don’t you know that a 
girl’s wedding is the event in her life?” 

“Events, plural,” he corrected her grirnly. 

“Wretch !” she replied, detaching a rose and 
striking him with it lightly on the cheek. 

“It’s rarely singular in these degenerate days, 
Vera.” 

“Now, I don’t admit that at all.” 

“I know, but you’ve only been married two 
years.” 

“Cynic,” was her answer, and then she slipped 
from the coping and her tone changed. “Bruce 
and I both thought, Kenward,” she said, nerv- 
ously. “Well, I hardly know how to say it, 
but we thought perhaps, when Uncle Archer 
died and left Bruce all his fortune — we didn’t 

know — perhaps you felt ” She broke off 

lamely and picked a petal from the rose in her 
hand. 

Kenward looked down at her and smiled. 
“Don’t ever let that worry you,” he said. “Uncle 
Archer was Bruce’s uncle; he was no kin of 
mine. Took a sort of fancy to me, helped me 
through Yale. There wasn’t any reason why 
he should leave me anything but that odd thou- 
sand. Besides,” his voice took a deeper tone and 
he looked away from Vera, down the hill that 
led to the iron gate across to the blue Hudson, 


S2 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

‘‘Bruce had already won you ; money didn’t 
matter.” 

Vera laughed and stood on tiptoe to put the 
rose she held in his coat. 

“You will keep up that ridiculous joke. Ken- 
ward, that you cared for me.” 

He turned away with a grim smile and his 
left hand touched the rose in his coat as he said : 

“Yes, it is funny, isn’t it?” 

“But you haven’t told me where you came 
from, Ken.” She smoothed the pillows on a 
low couch and dropped down on them. “And 
you know you must have dropped from some- 
where.” 

“Well, this time my drop is from the West.” 

“Where — what state?” She leaned forward 
expectantly. 

“Melbourne, Iowa,” he smiled into her eager 
face. 

She made a quick movement, but he fore- 
stalled her question. 

“Yes, I saw your sister; what a start she gave 
me. For a moment I thought it was you.” 

Vera looked at him in a puzzled way; some- 
thing in Kenward’s manner started a train of 
questions in her mind, but she checked it reso- 
lutely as she replied: 

“Why, we are twins; you knew that, Ken- 
ward.” 

He came a step nearer, then swung abruptly 
on his heel and puffed at his cigarette as he 
said : 

“Of course, but — well, meeting her suddenly 
was something of a shock.” 


Within the Gates of Eden 


53 


There was a pause, broken only by the soft 
sigh of the wind among the roses, and the steady 
whirr of the locusts. Vera had turned away and 
was gazing steadily toward the hills on the oppo- 
site river bank. A tender look stole over her 
face. 

'‘How was Alice?” she asked, dreamily. 

"Quite well, I should judge.” 

"I haven’t heard from her in quite two 
months.” 

He lighted another cigarette and tossed the 
burned stub away carefully before he answered. 
"Letter writing is a bore, Vera. I always won- 
der when I pick up Walpole’s letters, or the 
bulky volumes that contain the correspondence 
of our great men, how they ever had the patience 
to do it.” 

She went on as though she had not heard 
his last words. 

"Ken, I’ve a curious feeling of depression 
about Alice.” 

"Nonsense,” he laughed. 

"No, it’s not,” she persisted. "You know we 
were left alone, just father and we two mites. 
Mother didn’t seem to thrive out there ; she was 
from New England, and the silence, the sense 
of being remote, cut off from everybody, seemed 
to chill her. She just faded away. Afterwards 
Alice and I did the best we could, but life didn’t 
mean much to father after mother went away.” 

Her voice faltered a little and she rose and 
paced thoughtfully toward the other side of the 
loggia. 

"But Alice Was so ambitious. How she 


54 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


worked to fit herself for teaching, and how I 
worked on my voice. Why, Kenward, I meant 
to startle the musical world.” 

“And then Bruce came,” he put in quietly. 

She turned with a laugh, and a smile drove 
all the shadows from her face. 

“Yes! And a musical career ” she snapped 

her fingers gaily. 

“Worth just that, was it, compared with 
Bruce?” he asked with a gesture like her own? 

“And no more,” she added, making him a 
charming courtesy. 

He looked at her gravely and decided mentally 
she was everything a man could desire. Intelli- 
gence, sympathy, power of understanding and 
quick feeling shone in her liquid brown eyes. 
Charm she possessed, vitality, and, above all, 
that quality so rare in a woman — comradeship. 
The faculty of viewing life and conduct from a 
broad standard. 

Unconscious of his mental appraisement, Vera 
had strolled to the end of the loggia, where 
broad marble steps led down to a trellis screened 
arbor. 

She turned to him now and made a little ges- 
ture of cautious invitation. 

“What is it?” he asked, as he joined her. 

She laughed silently up at him and pointed 
to two figures below, busily engaged in arrang- 
ing a tea table. 

“My chaffeur and butler and general handy 
man, Martin; and the girl? Oh, she came to me 
from Bellows Falls, Vermont. They’ve been 
with us two weeks. I don’t know what to call 


Within the Gates of Eden 55 

her. She isn’t a maid exactly. Listen! It’s 
awfully good fun. Martin’s been offered a prize 
by Bruce if he can make Lesura laugh.” 

^'Lesura; is that a name, Vera, or an afflic- 
tion ?” 

“It’s a name, of course, her name ; listen.” 

Lesura had climbed to a garden bench. A 
newspaper caught to the trellised roof by some 
vagrant wind eddy luring her ; and Skeeter 
paused as he laid the latest magazine upon a 
low tabouret and grinned up at her amiably. 

“Ah, there angel,” he said, with an Eastern 
salaam, and then, as Lesura made no reply, he 
went on as though in earnest conversation with 
some shadowy, invisible companion: 

“How dare you speak to the angel, Skeeter? 
I’m surprised at you — nay, shocked. Does she 
wish to converse with you? Nay, nay, and like- 
wise nit.” He paused for a moment and stole a 
glance at the girl on the bench. She stood help- 
less, regarding him with a big, round eyed stare. 
He sighed at this evidence of her lack of humor- 
ous response and went on. 

“Nice angel !” He turned and whistled softly, 
calling, “Rover, Rover, Rover.” 

Here at last was something Lesura could un- 
derstand. She leaned forward and searched the 
trellised arbor with her wondering stare. 

“What are you calling a dog for,” she asked, 
“when you know Mrs. Wilton hasn’t any dog.” 

“Well,” replied Skeeter, dropping into a rustic 
armchair and mopping his brow thoughtfully, 
“I’ve tried everything I know to make you talk 
since that day T drove you out here two weeks 


56 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

ago, and I said today: call the dog and she will 
spoken from the face out forwards, and you did. 
Wise boy, Mr. Martin. I guess yes.’' 

Lesura surveyed him with unsmiling solem- 
nity. She shook her head gravely as she asked, 
‘‘Are you crazy?” 

“Are you, Lee?” cried Vera, leaning forward 
on the top step of the loggia, her hand on Ken- 
ward’s arm, her face dimpled with laughter. 
“Are you?” 

“No, Mrs. Wilton,” returned the boy as he 
made her a low bow. “No, I’m only just a little 
bft daffy.” 

Vera threw back her head and laughed. It 
was good to hear her. The cadence of her mirth 
sent back all kinds of harmonious echoes, and 
the flowers seemed to nod in sympathy with her 
enjoyment. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilton.” Skeeter bowed 
profoundly. 

Kenward chuckled quietly. 

“The lady on the bench doesn’t seem to appre- 
ciate your humor.” 

Skeeter looked up into Lesura’s mournful face 
and sighed. 

“Don’t I know it, Mr, Wright,” he replied, 
“and yet they call me the original comedy cut-up 
around here.” 

Lesura’s eyes opened a trifle wider and she 
gazed at the boy with a new interest. 

“What do you cut up, Mr. Martin?” 

Skeeter dropped back helplessly in the chair, 
while the echoes rang again with Vera’s laugh- 
ter and Kenward’s hearty mirth. 


Within the Gates of Eden 57 

“Can you beat her?” cried the boy in a tone 
of anguish. “Can you, oh, can you?” 

“What are you doing on that bench?” asked 
Vera when she could control her voice. 

Lesura gazed about her helplessly. 

“I don't know, Mis' Wilton,” she replied. 

“Take your time,” groaned Skeeter. “Don't 
overburden your mind; don't try to force it.” 

“Ah,” cried Lesura, suddenly. 

“Quiet, everybody.” Skeeter was on his feet, 
his hands outspread. “Quiet, she has an idea.'’ 

“I climbed up here to get that paper.” 

Skeeter darted from his chair around the 
table and with a flying leap dexterously res- 
cued the newspaper from the trellis. Ignoring 
Lesura’s outstretched hand, he tucked it under 
his arm and ran over to the foot of the marble 
stairs. 

“Extra! extra!” he called loudly, “all about 
the missing heiress of Bellows Falls, Vermont; 
please buy a paper lady.” He held it out to Vera 
beseechingly, but she shook her head laughingly 
and pointed to Lesura, who was staring at him 
in amazement. 

With one bound Skeeter was at the end of 
the bench. He spread his arms wide and with 
an entire change of manner became the dignified 
policeman of the Broadway squad. 

“Keep back there,” he called loudly; “keep 
back, give the lady a chance.” 

“What are you doing now?” asked Lesura 
gravely. 

“Keeping the crowd back so you can get out 
©f your airship.” 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


5S 


Lesnra descended from the bench slowly and 
heavily, her mind busy with this new idea. 

“Look out for the trolley car,” called Skeeter, 
and with one vigorous movement he swung the 
girl behind the table and bowed to her gravely. 
“Saved your life, Miss, but don’t thank me. 
I have ten medals at home for bravery.” 

“I don’t see any trolley car.” Lesura gazed 
at him earnestly ; she was trying hard to fathom 
the idea back of all this. 

“You don’t? Dear me!” Skeeter strolled 
over to her grandly and flicked an imaginary bit 
of dust from her plump shoulder. “See, there it 
goes, all painted red and green.” He eyed her 
earnestly. “Especially green; and don’t you see 
the sign: this car for the Joke Hospital, corner 
of Ha Ha avenue and Tee Hee street.” 

He looked at her smiling broadly, but his ex- 
pression changed to one of acute pain as she re- 
plied sadly: 

“I don’t see any car, and I never heard of a 
Joke Hospital.” 

“You’ll never win that prize,” put in Vera 
from the top of the stairs. 

“Sometimes I feel that way, too. Miss Wilton,” 
returned Skeeter, mopping his face. “And' that 
isn’t the worst of it. You see, I have a bet of 
five dollars with John, the coachman, another 
of two with Molly, the cook, that I can make her 
laugh.” 

“Got your work ahead of you,” laughed Ken- 
ward. 

The word work stirred the strings of Lesura’s 
remembrance. 


Within the Gates of Eden 


59 


“So have I,” she said, and immediately turned 
to her duties, arranging the little tea table, dis- 
posing the cushions and laying out cigarettes 
from a curiously inlaid box upon a silver tray. 

Skeeter motioned for silence to Vera and 
Kenward. He came up three steps and low- 
ered his voice to a cautious whisper. 

“Excuse me,” he said, “but here's the idea. 
Maybe my jokes are too wise for her. Now 
I'm going to try something simple.'' 

He stole down the steps and moved over to 
Lesura. 

“Ah,” he said, smiling blandly, “getting every- 
thing ready for Mr. Wilton, eh?” 

“Yes, Mr. Martin, you know he always comes 
on that five o'clock train.” 

Skeeter looked up at the blue sky and stifled 
a society yawn. 

“I wonder if Ben Will come with him today?” 

Lesura paused in the act of lighting a silver 
spirit lamp, and considered this as she did every- 
thing, with methodical care. Vera laid her hand 
on Kenward’s arm and her eyes questioned him. 

Kenward smiled and motioned her to silence. 

The mental effort brought nothing to Lesura. 
She shook her head and questioned the boy. 

“Ben who, Mr. Martin?” 

Modest in what he believed was his hour of 
victory, Skeeter took a step forward and smiled 
as he answered. 

“Why, Ben-anna!” 

He waited, and his smile faded, for Lesura 
was considering his reply with all seriousness. . 

“I never saw Mr. Benanna out here.” 

5 


60 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“Stung/' said Skeeter, and he vanished around 
the corner of the house. 

Lesura made a courtesy to Vera, and started 
after him. Then she paused, vibrant with an 
idea. 

“Mrs. Wilton/' she said, twisting the corner 
of her apron nervously; “shall I put an extra 
cup on the tray when I bring it for — for — Mr. 
Benanna ?" 

Vera stifled a laugh in her handkerchief. “No, 
Lesura, for I don’t think Mr. Benanna will visit 
us today." 

Again Lesura courtesied and took a step 
toward the little covered walk which ran back 
of the house. 

“The water's boiling for the tea, Mrs. Wilton, 
and I’ll come just as soon as I hear the whistle 
blow for the five o’clock train." 

She gave one more careful look at the tea 
table and disappeared around the corner of the 
house. 

Vera turned with a smile and saw Kenward's 
eyes fixed on her. 

“What is it, Ken?" she forestalled him. 

Kenward started slightly and looked at her 
narrowly. 

“How did you know I was asking a question 
of myself about you, Vera?" 

“Saw it in your eyes !" 

“Have to be careful what I think when you 
are watching me." 

“Well, you were going to ask me something?" 

“I will, anyhow. Do you treat all your 
servants as you treat those two young people?" 


Within the Gates of Eden 


61 


**Why, yes ; like friends.” 

*'Odd idea, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t see why?” 

‘‘Don’t they ever presume?” 

Vera shook her head. “No; and you know 
I don’t like to hear anyone call them servants.’* 

“You socialist!” he laughed. 

“Whatever you will, Ken.” Then her manner 
changed and she came swiftly toward him, with 
outstretched hands. “Oh, Ken!” 

“What is it now?” 

“I’ve just thought of something.” 

“That an unusual occurrence with you?” 

She made a little gesture of reproof for this 
levity on his part. He chose to take it as a 
threat of physical violence and fled smiling be- 
hind the tea table. 

“Don’t joke, Ken,” she persisted. “It is simply 
providential, your dropping in on me like this.” 

He lifted the little silver lamp from the tray 
and lighted a fresh cigarette, eyeing her quiz- 
zically. 

“Going to commit some crime?” 

She shook her head brightly, and came a step 
nearer, laying her finger on her lip. 

“No, Ken; but tomorrow is the anniversary 
of my marriage, and I’ve a present for Bruce, 
one that I want you to help me give him.” 

Kenward stared at her blankly. “A present 
you want me to help you give Bruce? Say, 
Vera, how am I to help? Ah, you want me 
to hold Bruce while you make him take it, eh?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she frowned. “You 
speak as though it was a dose of particularly 
unpleasant medicine.” 


62 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“Well, just how am I to help, then?^’ 

“I’ll tell you — tomorrow. Meet me in Bruce^s 
study early.’* 

“Ah, now you make me anxious, suspicious, 
when you say early. How early?” 

“Well, six o’clock!” 

“Good Lord! I’ll have to sit up all night to 
make it. Better enlist the aid of the milkman!” 

“Please be serious. Bruce won’t go to his 
office, probably, and it’s a task to have this gift 
ready for him and keep him out of the way.” 

“It must be an amazing present !” 

“That’s exactly what it is. I think he’ll won- 
der when he sees it.” She paused and sighed a 
little. “You know, Ken, there’s only one thing 
about Bruce I’d change.” 

“Only one,” he chuckled. “Most wives have a 
catalogue of additions and elisions, after two 
years of married life, that would fill an octavo 
volume.” 

He saw she did not smile, and drew a little 
nearer. 

“You know Bruce. Well, — he doesn’t believe 
in — well, in anything.” 

“An infidel, you mean, Vera.” 

“Yes ; only somehow the word always jars on 
me. Oh, I know you’ll say that science has 
quite disposed of old religious beliefs, turned 
them into myths and fables; but somehow I 
cling to the old, sweet faith in an all-wise, all- 
loving Creator, a Father, our Father, who 
watches over us and guides us, rejoices at our 
victories and is hurt by our transgressions. 
Bruce doesn’t believe, and sometime’s I’m — I’m 
afraid, Ken.” 


Within the Gates of Eden 


63 


Her voice sank almost to a whisper, and she 
put her hand over her eyes. 

“Vera,” he said softly, and came very near 
to her. 

“You’ll say it’s rank superstition, Ken; but I 
think of those solemn words of Him who walked 
this earth as a man, tasted its joys and sorrows, 
and died as we all must some day: *He that 

believeth not shall be’ ” She shut her lips 

tightly, and then threw it from her with a gesture 
of dismissal. 

“Foolish? Of course I am, Ken, Morbid? 
Yes, I presume that’s it. Only sometimes I 
wonder if the power that sways our world, all 
worlds; that keeps the stars in their courses and 
causes the sun to shine, may not teach the man 
I love the lesson of Faith, by bringing him to 
the dust, humbling him through sorrow and 
misery.” 

Kenward stood looking at her, awed by the 
deep tone of conviction. The Sun’s rays, nearly 
level now, dappled the rug-strewn marble floor 
of the trellised arbor. One slender shaft of 
golden light fell upon Vera, bathing her face and 
rapt eyes in its lambent glow. 

“You might be some ancient priestess,” he 
said softly, “standing before the sacrificial altar; 
or an oracle speaking from the incense mist about 
your tripod. But you don’t really believe that ?” 

“I hope I’m not,” she replied, a little wearily. 

“I hope I may prove a false prophetess. But 
I try so hard to have faith for both of us, and 
to lead Bruce ; and this gift is to help him in that 


(54 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Kenward shook his head, more than ever mys- 
tified. His blank stare changed her mood to one 
of gaiety. 

“There, there, Ken,” she cried gaily; “what 
gloomy thoughts for such a perfect afternoon! 
I know you’ll help me, so that’s settled ; and now 
here’s another commission for you.” 

“Going to keep me busy, eh?” he laughed, 
responding easily to her lighter tone. “Well, 
give it a name. Is this another leap in the dark 
at six A. M. ?” 

“No,” she smiled, sitting on the arm of the 
carved settee and leaning toward him. “This is 
very simple; just cheer Charley upl” 

“Cheer Charley up?” 

“Don’t echo me, Ken, in that parrot way, and 
don’t be stupid. Charley Harrow, my cousin.” 

“Oh,” said Kenward, nodding, as memory 
came to his aid. “The young fellow with more 
money than ” 

“Kenward!” 

“I wasn’t going to say brains ; you wrong me. 
‘Sense’ was the word I meant to use.” 

“Oh, Charley has sense enough, Ken; and it 
wasn’t his fault that his father left him ridicu- 
lously wealthy.” 

“Two hundred thousand, wasn’t it?” 

Vera nodded. 

“Fancy it’s being necessary to cheer a man up 
with that amount of money at his command! 
Just what seems to ail him?” 

•' “I don’t know ; nobody knows. He was up 
in the Catskills. Suddenly he appears here. We 
were glad to see him, of course. But he won’t 


Within the Gates of Eden 6S 

talk, nor eat; really, I don’t believe he sleeps; 
just sits around and smokes and sighs.” 

‘Why, he used to be the life of the party,” 
said Kenward, reminiscently. 

“Well, he isn’t now, Ken ; he’s simply a horrid 
problem, so you cheer him up.” 

“On the whole,” remarked Kenward, smiling, 
“the early morning job you’ve promised me is 
rather more inviting. You know it’s a difficult 
matter to cheer a fellow up when ” 

He broke off abruptly and rose from his chair. 
Vera’s eyes followed his intent gaze down the 
latticed walk which led to the main drive. 

A young girl was approaching thenx rather 
timidly. 


66 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER VII 
The Home in Eden 

V ERA turned, with a hasty exclamation, and 
then smiled charmingly at the intruder. 
“I beg your pardon,” she said. Then 
in a swift feminine way she inventoried the 
newcomer. Age about eighteen; pretty in a 
sweet, girlish way; medium height; red bronze 
hair that glowed in the sunbeams; simply but 
charmingly gowned in a way that showed a 
splendid, supple figure. 

'T beg your pardon,” she repeated lightly. 
“And I beg yours, ma’am; so we’re even.” 
There was just a lingering touch of Irish 
brogue; a soft, throaty accent, as though her 
progenitors had breathed the foggy air of the 
misgoverned, and misused little island. She 
looked into Vera’s eyes, and evidently found 
warmth and friendliness there, for she smiled 
radiantly. 

“Did you wish to see anyone?” asked Vera. 
She was hardly at her ease. 

Kenward was standing by his chair and look- 
ing at her rather boldly. 

“Is this Mr. Wilton’s place, ma’am?” 

“Why, yes,” returned Vera; “and I am Mrs. 
Wilton.” 

“Are you?” She treated Vera to a prolonged 
look of wonderment. “Look at that, now ! I’ve 
been making up my mind you were an angel, 
and you look” — ^her blue eyes opened widely and 


The Home in Eden 


67 


she took a timid step nearer — ‘*you look human.” 

“Your first thought was the correct one,” put 
in Kenward, gravely. “Angel is the word ; she’s 
going to take flight in just two minutes.” 

“Kenward !” admonished Vera severely. Then 
she turned to the young girl and smiled. “Why 
did you think I was an ” 

“Angel? Because I’ve heard of all the fine 
things you’ve done for the Poles and the Scandi- 
navians who are working on the new aqueduct.” 

“A missionary, are you, Vera?” laughed Ken- 
ward. 

Vera made a gesture of silence to him as she 
asked, “And what can I do for you, dear ?” 

“Just ask one of your servants to step inside 
the house and tell Father Kelly that his niece, 
Kathleen O’Connor, is waiting for him in this 
beautiful garden.” She moved away from Vera 
and looked about her over the well-kept beds, the 
flowering banks of roses, and the smooth terraces. 

Vera stole a look of wonderment at Kenward, 
who stood frankly amused at her perplexity. 

“But Father Kelly isn’t here, my dear girl,” 
said Vera gently. 

“No,” she said, turning. “Do you know who 
I mean, Mrs. Wilton?” 

Vera smiled and nodded. “Everyone knows 
Father Kelly.” She turned to Kenward in ex- 
planation. “He’s the dear old priest who came 
out here among the poor people and holds 
services for them in a tent.” 

, “He’s my uncle,” said Kathleen, proudly. 

“Really,” cried Vera, in surprise. “I’m so glad 
to meet you. This is Mr. Kenward Wright, Mr. 
Wilton’s friend and mine.” 


68 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Kenward bowed, and Kathleen returned him a 
little old-fashioned courtesy. Then she moved 
nearer Vera. “And are you sure Father Kelly 
isn't here ?” 

“Why, yes; did he say he was coming?" 

Kathleen nodded, a puzzled look in her eyes. 
“This morning, when he went out to make his 
rounds of the parish, he called me to him, and 
says he, ‘Kathleen, do you mark the fine house 
on the hill?’ ‘I do,’ says I. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘if 
anyone calls I’ll be there toward five in the after- 
noon. It’s Mr. Wilton’s house,’ he says, ‘and 
Mr. Wilton has sent me a note asking me to 
call.’ ’’ She paused, with an air of finality, and 
regarded Vera gravely. 

Kenward returned Vera’s mystified look with 
a shake of his head; he was unable to solve the 
problem. 

“Mr. Wilton sent Father Kelly a note,” re- 
peated Vera blankly. 

“So Father Kelly said,” nodded Kathleen; 
“and, ma’am, he couldn’t say anything but the 
truth if you paid him for it.” 

Vera took the temporizing course. Bruce 
would arrive shortly, and, besides, she remem- 
bered dimly the high amusement with which he 
had written a mysterious note the evening before 
in his study, boyishlv teasing her by saying it 
was a secret communication of great seriousness. 

“Then I’ll tell you what, dear,” she said, twin- 
ing her arm about Kathleen; “come into the 
house with me and wait. Mr. Wilton will be 
here soon, and Father Kelly may have been 
delayed.” 


The Home in Eden 


Kathleen looked up into Vera's eyes, read there 
friendliness, and shyly put her arm about the 
waist of her hostess. 

‘"Ken," said Vera over her shoulder as the two 
moved toward the house steps, “you find Charley ; 
he’s somewhere about.‘^ 

Kenward, who had been watching the little 
feminine comedy with a smile, gave a hurried 
looked about the expansive garden. A white 
flanneled figure caught his eye on the second 
terrace. 

“I see him,” he cried; and, parting the vines, 
he waved his hand to the youth, who came slowly 
up and across the smoothly shaven terrace to 
meet him. 

The two figures, silhouetted against the white 
marble steps leading to the loggia, had nearly 
reached the top. 

“It’s been a hot, dusty walk,” Vera was saying; 
“you must be very tired.” 

“A little, Mrs. Wilton ; but then, sure the long- 
est walk is worth the trouble, just to see you.” 

“I subscribe to that. Miss O’Connor,” put in 
Kenward from the foot of the stairs. 

Vera waved her hand gaily to him as she dis- 
appeared with her guest. 

A dull sparkle of light showed in Kenward’s 
eyes ; as though some hidden emotion were 
suddenly aroused; some vagrant thought that 
touched the hidden springs of feeling. There 
was forever about him an air of reticence. Full 
and hearty response seemed impossible to his 
nature. Yet good feeling, frankness, amiability 
showed always in his face and actions. It was 


70 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

only when one tried to find the inner man that 
something seemed to close, almost as though a 
door were shut upon an intruder. 

“Hello, Ken,” said a voice tinged with a sub- 
tile melancholy, close behind him, and he turned 
slowly. 

“Why, Charley, you old Indian!” he cried 
heartily, as he saw who his interrogator was. 
“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t come and say hello 
to a fellow, without my yelling at you.” 

Charley moved slowly to Kenward and gave 
him a limp hand. His rather slim figure seemed 
to exude melancholy. 

“Didn’t know you were here.” He walked 
away towards the tea table, then turned and 
added, with a mournful sigh, “Awfully glad to 
see you.” 

Kenward smiled, then looked his young friend 
over with a puzzled but appraising eye. Charley 
was somewhat over the average height; sinewy 
rather than muscular ; a face not fully developed, 
but promising no particular strength; dark hair, 
rather long and something too curly for a 
thoroughly masculine head. 

“Idealist 1” jotted Kenward mentally ; “head in 
the rarefied upper atmosphere — ^but rather a 
good-looking chap.” He added aloud as he 
sauntered over to him, “Yes, I noticed you were 
just crazy about me. How are you, old man?'’ 

“Rotten, thanks.” 

“What’s the matter?” Kenward was really 
concerned. 

Charley shook his head slowly and shoved his 


The Home in Eden 


71 


hands deep into his pockets. “J^st bored, you 
know.*’ 

“Bored!” echoed Kenward. 

“Tired!” 

“Tired; of what?” 

“Everything!” He shuffled his feet nervously 
and waved one hand in a circle about him. “You 
see all this?” 

“Yes.” 

“Fine, you think ; top notch of luxury, eh ?” 

“Beautiful.” 

Charley shoved his hand deep in his pocket 
again, and kicked at a corner of the rug before 
the little tea table. “Rotten!” he said, with a 
deep breath of utter disgust. 

“Come, I say, Charley ” 

“You think it’s a fine day, Kenward, don’t 
you ?” 

Kenward looked about him enthusiastically. 
“Beautiful! charming weather; the air up here 
has an absolutely tonic quality, and ” 

“It will rain tomorrow,” finished Charley, 
gloomily. 

Kenward frowned. He was not used to having 
thoughts twisted from his own meaning. 

“You’re in a nice, amiable frame of mind, 
aren’t you ?” he almost snapped. 

Charley shook his head slowly and sighed. 
“My normal condition now.” He looked about 
him dejectedly. “Got a cigarette, Ken?” , 

“Just going to offer you one.” His case was 
in his hands with the words, and he extended it 
hospitably. “New kind, Charley; make you feel 
better. , Finest blend of Turkish, mild, fra- 
grant ” 


72 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Qiarley dropped the white tube he had taken 
back in the case. 

“Rotten !'' he said. It was as though he aban- 
doned all hope now. 

Kenward closed the case with an angry snap. 
“What in the devil’s name ails you, Charley?” 
He hurled the question at him viciously, hoping 
to change the mood of oppression. 

“Life’s a joke,” said Charley, regarding him 
as though delivering an aphorism of depth and 
weight. “A poor joke badly told by a bad 
jester.” 

“Must have taken you a long time to look 
up that wise reflection,” returned Kenward, satir- 
ically. “Come now, brace up ; have you been here 
all Summer?” 

To his utter astonishment, Charley’s face ex- 
panded into a friendly smile. “No,” he said, with 
a laugh; “I was up in the Catskill Mountains 
four weeks.” 

Kenward took a step back from the young 
man and stared in sheer amazement at the sud- 
den transformation. 

“Yes,” he said feebly. “Why — ^you — ^you look 
happy when you say that?” 

Gloom was seated on Charley’s countenance 
once more. 

>T was happy,” he growled, “for four weeks; 

but now ” He moved away toward a leafy 

arch that led to a path running up through the 
grove of birch saplings. “Now everything is 
painful to me.” And while Kenward stood glar- 
ing at him, too dumfounded to move, he ran up 
the path and turned. “You give me a pain.” 


The Home in Eden 73 

With this Parthian shot he vanished in the 
thicket. 

Kenward caught up a leather-covered settee 
pillow. Physical violence seemed to fit the case 
rather than argument or persuasion; but Vera’s 
voice from the loggia halted him. 

^‘Oh, Kenward/’ she was saying as she came 
down the stairs. “Martin has your trunks up. 
Pve given you the room at the other end of the 
wing. You’ll be quite by yourself, as I know 

you always want to be ” She stopped and 

looked about her, then at Kenward. “Did you 
see Charley?” 

‘T did,” replied Kenward tersely, tossing the 
pillow regretfully back in its place, “and if you’re 
wise, Vera, you’ll keep that youngster out of my 
way.” 

“Did you cheer him up, Ken ?” 

“I did not ; but for two cents, two lonely copper 
cents, I’d punch his empty head.” 

Kenward vanished up the steps of the loggia, 
through it and the hall beyond to his room, 
shown thither by a servant who waited for him. 

“Poor Kenward!” laughed Vera, leaning 
against one of the vine-covered trellis supports. 
When by the vicious opening of his window she 
knew he was in his room, she ran up the little 
embankment back of the arbor. Kenward’s 
angry eyes met hers as he leaned out to fasten 
back a loosened shutter. A pause, and then they 
both laughed. 

“Was he very trying? — Charley, I mean, Ken.” 

“Trying? No, he doesn’t try you; just makes 
you mad clear through. Is he like that all the 
time?” 


74 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

"Yes — gloomy ; talks of how peaceful the silent 
tomb must be; gloats over D^Annunzio’s ‘Tri- 
umph of Death/ bur-r-r She shuddered 

extravagantly, and he laughed. 

"What time do we dine, Vera?” he asked, 
after a pause in which he drank in the beauty 
of the gradually closing day, and was not un- 
mindful of the charming picture she made as she 
leaned against a gnarled and twisted oak tree. 

"About seven. Hungry, Ken?” 

He looked at her quietly for a moment, then 
dropped on his knees before the open window 
and folded his strong arms upon the sill. 

"Yes,” he said. 

She made a little "moue” at him and shook her 
finger admonishingly. "Do you good to wait.” 

"Dress ?” he inquired as she turned to- go. 

She paused and nodded up at him brightly. 
"And Fm glad you’re here, Ken.” 

"So am I,” he replied, as she dexterously 
steadied herself with one hand on the oak, and 
then ran down the little rise to the arbor. 

A faint whistle cut clearly through the quiet 
of the dying day. Vera paused, panting a little 
from her headlong descent, and listened intently. 
Two sharp staccato blasts came floating up to 
her through the heavy, blossom-perfumed air, 
then one long musical note. ^ 

She clapped her hands, and various echoes of 
intense activity sounded in the house. "Lee, 
Lesura !” she called, and was answered by quick 
footsteps on the graveled path that led to the 
kitchen. Skeeter appeared, running swiftly; in 
his hands a tray on which was a silver tea urn. 


The Home in Eden 


75 


swung by a chain above a spirit lamp. He 
turned the corner of the house deftly and reached 
the tea table in two swift steps. 

“On the job, Mrs. Wilton,” he said. “I started 
when the whistle blew.” 

A match flamed in his hands, and the spirit 
lamp was soon blazing. 

Vera looked about her nervously. It was her 
pride to have everything ready for this afternoon 
tea when Bruce arrived. 

“Oh, dear,” she complained ; “where is 
Lesura ?” 

Lee was putting the last touch to the table. 
He knew from experience just how it must look 
to win a smile and a pat on his shoulder from 
the lady it was his joy to serve. “Bellows Falls 
is asleep, I guess,” he ventured, with a smile. 

I Vera struck the bell upon the table a single 
; sharp note. The sound filtered through the boy's 
I consciousness like quicksilver. He moved toward 
i the centre of the little open space; body half 
I bent, his left arm out, his right arm drawn back 
I close to his body. That one bell, like some magi- 

I cian's wand, had changed everything. The Sum- 
mer wind, whispering among the leaves, was the 
murmur of thousands crowded close within the 
confines of a smoky, high-raftered hall ; the soft, 
sibilant purr of the steaming kettle was the voice 
[ whispering advice close behind him; the one in 

I front of him — was — ^was 

^ “Lee!” It was Vera's voice, very low and 
quiet. He dropped his hands and looked about 
[ him in a dazed way, then he smiled ruefully. 

, “Sorry, Mrs. Wilton, but that one bell made 
J me think I was back in the prize ring again.” 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“Oh, Lee,” reproached Vera. “I thought you 
were through with all those dreadful days, long 
ago. 

“So I am; only at times, and then — why, it 
just gets me. But I won’t again; honest, I 
won’t !” 

His voice rang with simple honesty, and Vera 
patted him gently on the shoulder. 

“Go and find Lesura,” she said, gently. 

“You bet,” cried the boy, in relief, and turned 
in his quick, nervous way for a sudden flight 
down the narrow path. 

Only his quickness of mind, eye, body, pre- 
vented a collision; for Lesura was right behind 
him, a tray of frail china in her hands, her face 
set in an expression of stern achievement, and 
her feet making what her native town would 
have called “sudden haste.” 

Deftly, as Vera uttered a low cry, Lee sprang 
to one side, and, to save himself from rolling 
down the terrace, embraced the startled Lesura, 
who stood still, the tray extended in her hands, 
and in her eyes profound amazement. 

“Don’t worry,” panted Lee to Vera, and then, 
as he possessed himself of the tray, Lesura still 
standing with her arms and hands extended, 
brought his sense of humor back to him. 

“Going down,” he said, and with one hand 
forced Lesura’s arms to her sides. 

Then he regarded her critically. There was not 
even a faint gleam of answering humor in her 
eyes ; she gazed at him, round-eyed, soberly. 

“You ought to get the hook,” he said; and, 
smiling at Vera’s laughter, rested the tray upon 


The Home in Eden 




the table and disposed the cups in their usual 
places. 

“Mr. Wright doesn^t want any tea. I just 
went up to see and he said to tell you no, thank 
you, Mrs. Wilton.’' 

Lesura had not moved. In the constantly re- 
curring shock of new impressions, here was a 
novel and a far stranger one. 

“Get the hook.” 

To her literal mind it meant exactly what the 
words conveyed. In her existence a hook was a 
hook. There was nothing to tell her of its more 
occult meaning, gleaned from the vaudeville 
theatres, where on amateur nights, when eager 
and budding artists are given a trial, disappro- 
bation on the part of the audience causes the 
offending performer to be dragged from the 
stage by an iron hook about his waist, the motive 
power furnished by a muscular stage hand. 

“All ready, Mrs. Wilton,” said Lee, regarding 
the table with a critical eye. “A close call on 
cups and cake, but it got here finally on the 
Bellows Falls slow freight!” 

“Mr. Martin?” called Lesura, twisting her 
fingers nervously together. 

He assumed an elaborate air of attention and 
leaned toward her. 

“What kind of a hook shall I get?” 

He dropped upon the settee and stared at her ; 
then the real understanding of the query dawned 
on him, and he chuckled. 

- Vera had only half heard this little side 
comedy. She was listening for the sound of a 
step that even after two years never failed to 


78 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


thrill her, to send the blood pounding through 
her veins, and a sweet mist before her eyes. 
But she did see Lesura turn with a sober, puz- 
zled face and start up the step that led to the 
house. 

“Where are you going, Lesura?” she asked, 
going a little toward her. 

Lesura paused and regarded her mistress 
gravely. 

“I am going to get the hook,” she replied, and 
went sombrely out of sight within the dark, cool 
hallway. 

“You bet you are,” murmured Lee, almost 
inaudibly; but Vera caught a faint hint of his 
words and turned accusingly on him. Lee took 
a single step away and smiled sheepishly; jokes 
with Lesura were countenanced by Mrs. Wilton, 
jokes at her were frowned upon ; and Lee felt the 
“hook” episode came dangerously near outlawry. 
But before Vera could form her question or Lee 
begin his elaborate excuse, a clear, ringing voice 
cried “Home again!” and Bruce Wilton stood 
framed in the arched doorway of the arbor. 

^ Vera flew to him swiftly, her arms about his 
neck. The boy disappeared somewhere in the 
shrubbery. For a moment Bruce held his wife 
close to him. Neither spoke for a long space of 
silent heart-beats. All about them, in the air, 
from the cool, moist earth, in the vaguely stir- 
ring leaves, came the subtile change that told 
of the day's end; that night was coming on. 
The ebb of Nature's force was beginning. She 
was putting the last tender touches to her day's 
work, saying, “Rest, sleep; prepare for the mor- 


The Home in Eden 


79 


row.” The sun shone now with a milder radi- 
ance. The grass, the leaves, the swaying vines 
took on a deeper green ; the air grew heavy with 
the mixed and spicy odors of flowers, shrubs, 
and blossoms; far above them circled a flock of 
pigeons cooing softly to each other as they 
winged their way homeward. Voices of chil- 
dren at play came up from the street of the little 
village at the foot of the hill. A mother called 
her child, and the syllabled sounds were borne to 
them clearly in the hushed silence. 

Vera looked up into her husband's face and 
laid her hand caressingly on his cheek. 

“Tired, Bruce?” 

“I was,” he smiled down at her. 

“Glad to see me?” 

He gripped her tighter for an answer. 

“It's ages since you went away this morning, 
Bruce.” 

“Meant to catch the two-o’clock, but missed it. 
A big deal on ; tell you about it later.” 

He tossed his panama on the settee and came 
a little into the arbor. “Hello,” he said ; “where 
did Lee disappear?” 

The boy came from behind the lattice work, 
hesitatingly. 

“I am hiding in the forest,” he said, holding a 
leafy branch grotesquely over his face. 

Bruce laughed and held out his hand. He liked 
the boy and the way he had seized the opportu- 
nity offered him. 

“Hello,” he said genially, “glad to see you.” 

“Right back at you. Boss, only stronger,” an- 
swered Lee as he grasped the outstreched palm, 

“Here's the hook.” 


80 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

It was Lesura close behind them. She had 
come down the steps from the house and held 
out for general acceptance a long handled button 
hook. Bruce moved over to her and examined 
the article with care. Out of the corner of his 
eye he saw Lee dodge around the tea table, his 
hand stifling his laughter and he suspected a 
joke. 

*‘Is that for me, Lesura ?” he inquired gravely. 

The girl looked up at him seriously and shook 
her head. Matters had gone quite beyond her 
mental powers, so far as explanation was con- 
cerned. 

‘T don’t know,” she said slowly. ‘'Mr. Mar- 
tin said I ought to get the hook.” 

A long pause, while she turned it over care- 
fully in her hand, making sure that in this strange 
environment it had not changed itself to some- 
thing quite different. It was there, however, 
gleaming silvery confidence to her, so she drew 
a deep breath and held it up. “And I got it.” 

Bruce turned with a smile, as he recollected his 
offered prize for a laugh to be won from Lesura. 
He went over to the tea table and dropped into 
his accustomed seat. 

Lesura gazed after him blankly. 

“Isn’t it the right kind of a hook?” she asked 
plaintively. 

“I don’t know, Lesura,” returned Bruce. “You 
see I never was much of a hook judge; ask 
Lee.” 

^ ‘I will see,” said the thus appointed referee 
bowing gravely to the two people at the tea 
table. “I was brought up on hooks ; yes, yes. 


The Home in Eden 


81 


indeed, many a time have I had them thrown 
into me — tut, tut, I am wandering from my 
story.” 

He took the button hook from Lesura and 
carefully tried to encircle her neck with it. Near- 
ly exploding with suppressed laughter, Vera and 
Bruce watched him. Then he tried it upon her 
plump forearm, shook his head mysteriously, 
handed it back to Lesura with a low bow and a 
gravely regretful air. 

‘'No, Miss Watkins, the hook isn't large 
enough. Sorry, for I had promised myself the 
pleasure of teaching you a new and wonderful 
exercise with it.” 

Lesura took the button hook doubtfully. Here 
was an unexpected complication. She looked at 
it a moment and then with a view of setting 
Mr. Martin right, said slowly, “You use that to 
button boots with.” 

“Yes, yes, I know,” returned her monitor po- 
litely; “but when you get the hook, it will be 
in the neck.” 

She looked at him in unwinking gravity. This 
was New York and they were all strange peo- 
ple, with peculiar ways. She seized upon the 
one idea that remained to her. 

“Til go and get the right hook,” she said, and 
left them. 

Bruce roared with laughter, and Vera joined 
his merriment in a silvery upper tone. The laugh 
had been turned neatly upon the joker and he 
shook his head and grinned a little ruefully. He 
was not accustomed to hilarity at his expense. 

“Lee, oh, Lee,” groaned Bruce wiping fais 


82 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

eyes ; wit doesn’t seem to make an impres- 

sion on our friend Lesura.” 

‘"She’s a tough proposition, Mr. Wilton.” He 
shook his head and then determination flashed 
in his eyes. “But I’ll make her laugh or die try- 
ing.” 

Vera turned to Bruce as the boy disappeared 
down the path. 

“Bruce, dear, aren’t you afraid we’ll spoil those 
two?” 

“Not a bit, Vera. Heavens, but it’s good to 
laugh; there’s tragedy enough in the city.” 

She laid her cool, soft hand on his a moment 

“A hard day in Wall Street?” 

He nodded. 

“Worried, Bruce?” 

“No, only anxious. Fm in a deal that if any- 
one knew the real facts, well, they could smash 
me like that” 

His hand closed sharply, to show the utter ruth- 
lessness of the financial world, and she caught 
her breath sharply. 

“Bruce, why do you do it?” 

“Money,” he returned laconically. 

“Yes, but we have enough, haven’t we?” 

He shook his head slowly. “Nobody has 
enough, little woman, and, besides, it’s the joy 
of working, accomplishing, taking long chances, 
matching your brains against other brains and 
winning out.” 

“And this deal?” she asked. 

“It’s a wonder. When I land it, that old street 
will just sit up, rub it’s eyes and stare.” 

“Going to tell me about it?” 


The Home in Eden 


83 


He stared at her across the table so frankly, 
that she grew self-conscious and drew a little 
away. 

“That^s the first time, Vera,” he said slowly, 
**that I ever knew you to be curious about a busi- 
ness affair.” 

“I’m interested in anything that concerns you, 
Bruce. Don’t you want to tell me?” 

He nodded. 

“It’s a deal I have to be careful about,” he 
said slowly; “because, well, there’s been some 
one working against me in Wall Street for 
months past.” 

“Who, Bruce?” 

“Ah, there it is ; I don’t know. But some one 
has been outguessing me. That’s why I’m cau- 
tious this time.” 

“Cautious with me ? Oh, Bruce !” 

Her tone of half reproach brought him to her 
side instantly. 

“No,” he said, “of course not you, dear. Come, 
nr tell you tonight and you’ll be the only person 
in the world who does know; even Evarts, my 
confidential man on the Exchange floor, won’t 
know as much as I’ll tell you.” He paused a 
moment, then a tender light came into his eyes. 
It softened the hard lines that were beginning 
to show on his smooth, almost boyish, face. 

“Do you know what day tomorrow is, Vera?” 
he asked softly. 

“Yes,” she nodded up to him brightly; “July 
eleventh.” 

“And our wedding anniversary. Hush, no, 
don’t speak. Close your eyes tight now.” His 


84 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

right nand slid into an inner pocket and a dull 
colored leather case was in her hands. ‘‘Now 
open them/* he cried. 

She rose from the settee and moved a little 
away from him, postponing the moment of 
knowledge of the case’s contents. Then she threw 
its cover back and cried out in her joy. 

“Oh, Bruce r 

“To my wife, Vera, on our second anniver- 
sary.** 

“A rosary,** she breathed softly, looking down 
at the case in her hand, then at him with misty 
eyes. “A rosary of pearls.** 

“I had them selected one by one, and the 
cross,** he held it in his broad palm; “was made 
from the first ore taken from my new Western 
mine.** 

“How dear of you,** was all she could say. 
Then a thought came to her and she stood away 
from him smiling. “And my present to you, 
Bruce ’* 

“Yes,** expectantly. 

“Well, I can’t give it to you now!’* 

“No?’* 

She shook her head and nodded at him bright- 
ly. “No, because it isn’t finished; that is,” she 
caught herself hurriedly. “It is finished, but it 
isn’t in yet.” 

He was rather mystified. “In where, Vera?” 

She leaned forward, smiling at his puzzled 
face. “In the house.” 

Then with a little cry, she sprang in front of 
him as he made for the steps. “No, Bruce, no !*’ 

“But I don’t understand.” 


The Home in Eden 65 

She threw back her head and laughed. *T 
don't mean you shall ; only you mustn’t enter your 
study tomorrow until ten o’clock.” 

Extended hand was his reply and a formal 
clasp of her own. "‘I promise, Vera.” Then he 
drew her hand through his arm and they paced 
slowly up and down the arbor’s length. 

“Anything new, Vera?” 

“Yes, Kenward is here.” 

“Fine ; I hope we can keep him.” He paused 
listening for a moment to a meadow lark’s full 
throated song. “And you know, Vera, Kenward 
acted like a big man when Uncle Archer left me 
all that money.” 

“Didn’t he, Bruce?” ^ 

He looked at her quickly and a dull wave of 
color stained his cheeks. “Somehow, Vera, I 
always thought Ken was in love with you.” 

Laughter rang from her lips at this and she 
pinched his hand sharply. “Nonsense, now don’t 
be jealous; that’s the one thing that makes me 
worry sometimes ” 

He caught her in his arms almost savagely. 
“I’m a brute to even suggest such a thing.” 

“No.” 

“Yes I am, but — oh, hang it, let’s forget it. 
Anybody called?” 

Vera gave a little cry. “Now that reminds 
me ; there’s a very pretty girl waiting for Father 
Kelly. Did you send him a note, Bruce ?” 

He nodded and laughed. “Why, of course; 

remember my telling you of a priest who ” 

He broke off abruptly and stole softly toward 
the broad opening in the trellis that fronted 


86 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


toward the hill driveway. Then he called her to 
him with a gesture and pointed to a black coated 
figure that was moving slowly up the hill in their 
direction. 

^‘Father Kelly/^ he said smiling and drawing 
her up the steps towards the house. ‘T'm going 
to give him the surprise of his life!” 


After Many Years 


8T 


CHAPTER VIII 
After Many Years 

F ather kelly stood in the arbor and 
gazed back at the winding white ribbon of 
road up which he had come. He removed 
his derby hat, he never could accustom himself 
to the clerical fashion in head covering, and 
mopped his fine broad forehead with a white silk 
handkerchief. 

^^A fine climb to the top of the hill,’’ he mused, 
‘‘and a fine place when you get here. Only 
there’s nobody about.” He gazed about him 
thoughtfully. “Let me see that note again.” He 
read it through slowly. 

“Dear Father Kelly: 

“If you will call on Mr. Wilton Tuesday, the 
eleventh, you will meet an old friend and hear 
good news.” 

Then he paused and gazed about him tran- 
quilly. “I wonder what Fd better do?” 

“If I were in your place. Father Kelly ” 

The priest turned at the words and met Bruce 
half way down the stairs that led to the house. 
They eyed each other a moment in silence. Bruce 
stood on the step, both hands in his pockets, smil- 
ing down at the clergyman. 

Father Kelly gazed at the good humored young 
man who had spoken and then shook his head 
quietly. No, he did not know the gentleman. 
Doubtless there was a joke concealed somewhere, 
but at present it was hidden from his humorous 




88 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

sense. So he bowed in his charming old world 
manner and asked, ‘‘What would you do?'’ 

“Fd rest myself after my long walk.” 

“That’s good advice,” said the Father; “and 
I make it a rule in life to always follow good 
advice.” 

He seated himself carefully in a comfortable 
armchair, and resting his hat upon his knees, gave 
himself to a closer study of his adviser. 

Bruce came down the few remaining steps and 
moved over carelessly to the opposite side of the 
tea table. “It’s a warm day,” he hazarded mildly. 

“My dear sir, it’s more than that; it’s scald- 
mg. 

“But there’s a cool breeze up here.” 

“I feel the gentle zephyrs on my cheek.” He 
eyed Bruce narrowly and shook his head, no he 
did not know this gentleman, and yet somehow, 
somewhere a chord of memory was sounding so 
faintly that he could not catch the exact har- 
mony. Bruce leaning against the settee was 
watching him with an affectionate smile. 

“Well,” said Father Kelly, plaintively, “will 
you please tell me what I do now ?” 

“What you do now?” Bruce was puzzled. 

“Of course, you’re laying down rules for my 
behavior. ‘Sit down,’ says you, and here I am 
planted like a marble statue in your fine arbor. 
‘A cool breeze,’ you said, and I have my bald 
pate turned toward it. So I ask you now what 
next?” 

Bruce laughed, then suddenly took a step to- 
ward him and spread his arms wide. “Lx>ok 
at me.” 


89 


After Many Years 

"Faith, you're so in the middle of the land- 
scape I can’t miss you with my eyes. I’m look- 
ing.” 

"Tell me my name !” 

Father Kelly stole a surreptitious look at the 
note and answered promptly, "Wilton!” Then 
he cocked his head a little to one side and asked 
naively, "Am I prompt in my answers?” 

But the next question came quickly. "Where 
have you seen me before?” 

"Well, I — I ” he could only stammer. 

■ ■ "Quick, now,” Bruce shot at him. "Quick.” 

"Easy, my son,” for the good Father was a 
little confused; all the strings of memory were 
jangling and he could not catch the sounds 
clearly. 

"Easy, don't rush an old man off his feet.” He 
raised his head with sudden inspiration. "Was 
it in church?” 

Bruce’s face hardened. It always did when 
religion, spiritual matters were mentioned. "No, 
I haven’t been inside a church for twenty years.” 

Sorrow showed in Father Kelly’s eyes, sorrow 
and something akin to pity. He shook his head 
gravely. "I’m sorry to hear that, very sorry.” 

The cloud on Bruce’s countenance gave way 
to a broad smile. "Yes, you always were.” 

The simple words struck an answering chord 
in the good Father. He leaned forward, his eyes 
searching Bruce's face. "I always was — I al- 
ways ” He shook his head impatiently and 

his gaze came back to the smiling face. "Man, 
dear, your voice has a familiar ring, and your 
smile is like that of someone — someone—? 


90 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


who ” His voice died away to a murmur, 

as his mind went back over the fruitful years 
of his past. 

But Bruce had pity on his mental effort, and 
helped him by completing his unspoken thought. 
‘‘Of someone who walked and^ talked with you 
many years ago, Father Kelly, when you used 

to shake your fist at him and say ” He paused 

and then touched the string of memory with a 
quotation, a line of Virgil that had clung to him. 
“Arma virumque cano ” 

And Father Kelly completed it half mechan- 
ically: “Trojae qui primus ab oris.” 

He looked at Bruce and the years rolled away. 
Again he sat in his study in that quaint old New 
England town, and an overgrown youngster bent 
and twisted and wriggled in his chair, as he con- 
strued the immortal lines. Almost with a shout of 
joy the good Father leaped from his chair and 
faced his tormentor, his face shining with the joy 
of recognition. 

“Murder alive,” he gasped ; “it’s Bruce, my 
dear boy Bruce whom I yanked through his Latin 
by the hair of his head; Bruce.” His manner 
changed and his brows gathered in a portentious 
frown. Fie drew himself up to his full height 
and commanded. “Bruce Wilton, come here!” 

The transition was so sudden that Bruce 
quailed. He knew that old familiar attitude, that 
ring in the musical voice. With an effective imi- 
tation of his old schoolboy way he shuffled over 
to his friend. They gazed at each other a mo- 
ment or so, and then Father Kelly threw both his 
arms about his shoulders and held him close. 


After Many Years 91 

"Father Kelly/' said Bruce wondering if he 
had carried the joke too far. 

The Father released him slowly and looked at 
him once more. Then slowly he raised his right 
hand, the fingers doubled. "For two pins, Fd 
lather the head off you.” 

"No, you don’t,” cried Bruce, flying for safety 
behind the settee. "I’ve felt the weight of that 
right hand of yours before in our bouts with the 
gloves.” 

The priest’s hand outspread was raised depre- 
catingly. "Is it a fighter you’re making of me?” 

"Well, your religion was never of the molly- 
coddle kind, Father Kelly; that’s what I always 
liked about it.” 

His old friend came across the intervening 
space and laid his hand on his shoulder gently. 
"But you never liked it well enough to make it 
your own.” 

Their eyes met for a long look of affection 
before Bruce answered. "I don’t believe in any 
religion, Father!” 

A strange look came over the priest’s face. It 
was as though material things had vanished for 
the moment, and he saw truly with the inward 
spiritual eye of faith. For an instant his lips 
moved, though they uttered no sound. His hand 
sought that of the man who stood close beside 
him and clasped it close. "I know that, Bruce, 
and it was always a great grief to me. But I 
live in hope, lad. His ways are wonderful and 
He may yet show you that His mighty hand rules 
the universe.” 

4 He moved a little away from his friend and 
gazed at him smiling. 


92 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

"There, there, Bruce, dear lad, sure my love 
for you makes me forget I’m not in my pulpit 
preaching.” He drew his chair toward the table 
and dropped into it as he went on: "Tell me 
about yourself. I was sent to a Southern par- 
ish when you entered college, that’s how I lost 
track of you. You’ve done well?” 

Bruce faced him smiling across the tea table. 
He waved his hand comprehensively about him, 
taking in the luxurious surroundings. "So well, 
Father Kelly, that sometimes I’m afraid.” 

His friend eyed him sharply. "Afraid of what, 
Bruce?” 

Bruce leaned back on the settee and frowned. 
"Well, I don’t know,” he admitted, "but luck 
may change, you know.” 

"Sometime,” said Father Kelly calmly, "when 
you have two days to spare, I’ll prove to you 
that there’s no such thing as luck.” 

"I’m no match for you in argument,” laughed 
Bruce. Then his face grew grave. "I’ve added 
to the fortune my uncle left me until now I’m 
worth a cool million.” 

"I hear you,” said Father Kelly, "but it’s hard 
to follow you. I can think very well in tens and 
hundreds, but a million, well, it nigh takes my 
breath away.” 

Bruce smiled. "I’ve this estate, a business I 

enjoy, prospects of doing still better, and ” 

he stole a look at his friend and leaned far over 
the table; "and a wife.” 

"Aha,” cried Father Kelly, raising his hand 
and waving it at him in perfect comprehension. 
"I’ve been waiting for the rustle of a petticoat.” 


After Many Years 


93 


*'The dearest girl in the world, Father Kelly!” 

The priest nodded in perfect accord with his 
enthusiasm, *T’ll bet you.” 

"‘Strange, too,” Bruce went on; “she’s relig- 
ious; believes in everything I reject.” 

Father Kelly laid his hand gently upon Bruce’s 
arm. “Then there is hope for the head of the 
house, my boy.” 

Bruce smiled, the good father’s insistence 
amused him when he thought of the depths of 
unbelief in his own mind. “And our meeting,” 
he went on, “was the strangest thing. Out in 
the country, a Western town, I happened to be 
passing by a little ramshackly church. Some one 
was playing the Rosary.” 

Faintly through the golden sunset, mingling 
with the odors of buds and blossoms, almost like 
a higher accompaniment to the gentle breeze 
from the river below the hill, came the sound of 
a piano in the house. Vera was playing that 
magnificent anthem of love for Kathleen in the 
music room. The two men raised their heads in 
stinctively and listened for a moment ; then Bruce 
repeated slowly the human words that vitalized 
the wonderful harmony. 

“The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, 

Are as a string of pearls to me, 

I count them over every one apart, 

My rosary, my rosary. 

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, 

To still a heart by absence wrung ; 

I tell each bead unto the end — 

And there a cross is hung.” 

The sound of the piano died away in a note 
that was almost a sob of pain. 


94 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

t 

' Father Kelly laid his hand gently upon that 
of Bruce. There was something of the mystic 
in his face, as though his eyes saw beyond the 
present, looked into the future. He repeated 
slowly, dwelling on each word. ^‘And there a 
cross is hung.” 

Bruce raised his head, a little awed by his 
friend’s tone. Something there seemed to be 
of significance in the hand on his own, the look 
within the eyes directed on him. An intangible 
sensation, vague, elusive, like a breath, a whisper 
seemed to touch them both. Then a cool, tender 
voice broke through the fancies each mind was 
weaving. 

^‘Bruce, dear,” said Vera, from the steps, 
“what keeps you ?” 

He rose laughing and came to meet her. “Here 
she is. Father Kelly 1 It was her voice that drew 
me that day.” 

The priest turned and looked at Vera, then he 
smiled and took her extended hand. “Sure, and 
that’s no wonder.” 

“Then you don’t blame Bruce, Father Kelly?” 

He gently touched her hand with his disen- 
gaged one. “Faith, ma’am, if he hadn’t been 
drawn, well, he’d have been more than human.” 

“Blarney!” and Vera shook her finger at 
him. 

“Not a bit of it. Cold nineteen hundred and 
ten truth.” 

She moved to the tea table. “Tea after that!” 

“Is that a hint, ma’am, that my compliment 
to you is hot air?’* 

Bruce laughed as he waved his friend to a 
seat “Not a bit of it” 


After Many Years 


95 


“Never had such an idea.” Ve/a looked at 
him archly over the tea she was pouring. Like 
it strong, Father Kelly?” 

“Suit yourself!” He leaned back and smiled 
at the charming picture she made. “Sure, I’ll 
engage to drink it as you pour it out, Mrs. 
Wilton.” 

“No, no,” objected Vera sharply. 

“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Father Kelly 
was puzzled at his hostess’ tone. 

She bent toward him graciously and laid the 
tips of her fingers on his shoulder. “Not Mrs. 
Wilton — Vera to my dear friends,” and she hand- 
ed him his crp. 

His glance at her was full of affection. Father 
Kelly knew people almost at the instant of their 
meeting. “Does that mean I’m elected to that 
honorable number?”’ 

“Unanimously 1” and she deftly dropped a lump 
of sugar in his cup. 

“My thanks,” he said. “Sure, and it’s knight- 
hood you’ve conferred on me.” 

Vera laughed. “Oh, you Irishmen! Bruce 
has a drop of the blood in him.” 

“Of course ; isn’t he my friend ?” 

They laughed a little at this reply and there 
was silence for a moment. 

Bruce put back his chair with an exclamation. 
“Father Kelly I” 

His friend just on the point of taking his first 
sip of the steaming cup, paused and surveyed 
him. “Man, dear, are you wishful to scald me? 
What’s happened, anyhow ?” 

Bruce leaned back in his chair and smiled a 


96 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

little wickedly. “Why, quite by accident I put 
some whisky in your tea!” 

**Bruce!” Vera's tone was reproachful. 

“I'm very sorry, Father!” 

“Well, said Father Kelly; “was it good 
whisky ?” 

The naive question brought a roar of laughter 
from Bruce. “Real Irish, fifteen years old.” 

“Well,” said Father Kelly sniffing its aroma 
cautiously. “Well, let it stay. If it’s that old, it 
would be a crime to disturb it.” But when their 
merriment at this had subsided, he gravely hand- 
ed his cup back to Vera. 

She took it wonderingly. “You don't ap- 
prove ?” 

“Ah, now that depends ; whisky is a fine serv- 
ant, but 'tis bad to be ruled by it, and 'tis such 
an uncertain creature you never know when it 
may create a revolution and misgovern you. Be- 
sides if I did take it, someone who hadn't the 
strength to use it in moderation might see me 
— ^and — well, sure I’m better off without it.” 

Bruce laughed. It almost seemed to him he 
was back in that tiny orchard of the Father’s 
parsonage years ago. “You haven’t changed a 
bit. Father Kelly.” 

But his friend shook his head slowly. “Yes, 
lad. I’m balder and my hair is whiter.” 

“But how comes it you’re out here. Father? 
Why, a man like you should be at the head of 
one of the finest churches in New York City.” 

“But, Bruce, I chose this place.” And he 
raised his hand to check their exclamations. “Yes, 
I knew tliat there were men, women and little 


After Many Years 97, 

children here who were starving for the bread 
of God’s word.” 

The sincerity of the man was absolute. He 
spoke without any appreciable sense of what it 
might mean to relinquish ambition, honors, ap- 
plause, everything most men seek, and find his 
joy and peace in simple duty, performed with a 
whole heart and in the spirit of love. 

Vera laid her hand on his arm. There was a 
mist before her eyes. ‘'And you hold services 
in a tent. Father folly?” 

“ ’Tis all the same,” he said simply ; “whether 
the Master calls in doors or out. Didn’t the 
good fathers who came to America when all was 
a wilderness do without churches? And, sure, 
I’m no better than they.” 

“Charming in summer,” interjected Bruce, “but 
how about winter?” 

Father Kelly put down his cup and smiled, 
then he shook his head and grimaced. “I’ll not 
say it’s thoroughly comfortable in January.” He 
leaned over the table towards them. “One of 
my congregation, a rebel and an anarchist, but 
a good fellow, came to me one morning at early 
Mass, when the snow blew in and drifted about 
my feet and, says he, ‘Father Kelly, preach to 
us about the place where the wicked will go,' 
he says, ‘and faith, you’ll melt the snow about 
you.' ” He leaned back enjoying their hearty 
laughter for a moment, then took up his cup 
again with a wise shake of his gray head. 

“Wouldn’t you like a church ?” 

Father Kelly paused with his cup half raised 
and considered Bruce’s question. “Well, I’m not 
avaricious, my boy, but I could use one.” 


98 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Suddenly Vera put up her hand and checked 
them. “There’s a new chapel building near the 
foot of this hill, isn’t there?” 

Bruce nodded. “And when it is finished, the 
keys wili be turned over to Father Kelly.” 

“To me!” The good priest was astonished. 
He put his cup down and stared at Bruce, who, 
leaning back in his chair, was lighting a cigarette 
with elaborate unconcern. “To me 1” He glanced 
at Vera, who lifted her hands protesting her ig- 
norance, then at his friend, who regarded him 
blandly. “Ah, go on, and don’t be cracking your 
jokes at an old man.” 

“But it’s the truth, Father!” 

“You mean it?” 

“I certainly do ; built by special permission of 
the Archbishop of New York. The money is 
laid aside, a special fund has been created. It 
will be completed in a year from today, and it’s 
name is the Chapel of the Rosary.” 

Vera looked at Bruce too astonished for words. 
He made a smiling gesture of silence to her and 
they both turned to the priest. His head was 
sunk on his breast and he seemed to be consid- 
ering the good news with all his mental powers. 
Then he felt their eyes on him, and, raising his 
head, extended his muscular arm to his hostess. 
“Well, Vera, there’s only one way out of this; 
will you have the kindness to pinch me ?” 

“Father Kelly,” cried Vera, rising in her 
alarm. 

“I must be walking in my sleep. Please pinch 
me I” 

Bruce nodded and Vera obeyed, something tpo 


After Many Years 99 

earnestly to judge from the wry face the good 
Father made. 

“Yes, I’m awake,” he said, “but where did it 
come from, who ” 

“I gave it to you, old friend,” and in Bruce’s 
voice there sounded the deep affection of a 
strong, vital man. 

Father Kelly looked at his friend and his eyes 
were dim with gratitude. “I’m trying to speak, 
Bruce, but the words won’t come.” 

Bruce laid his hand on Vera’s arm. “And on 
the day you open the chapel doors, there will be 
a new organ, a gift from Vera.” 

She turned to him with a sudden comprehen- 
sion. “That’s the organ you made me select, 
Bruce, and refused to tell me what it was for. 
Father Kelly, the day your chapel opens I will 
play the organ for your service.” 

“And though I don’t believe in religion at all. 
Father,” said Bruce; “I’ll come to church that 
day.” 

Father Kelly looked from one friend to the 
other. “Save me, but you simply overwhelm me 
with your goodness. It’s a tidal wave of love 
that is sweeping over me.” His voice broke a 
little on the last words and he put his hand over 
his eyes. 

Vera made a gesture to Bruce and he nodded 
as he bent over the table toward his friend. 
“Can’t you swim. Father?” 

^ “Get out of that, you blatherer !” cried his 
friend, pursuing him to the confines of the arbor, 
while Vera laughingly applauded. 

Bruce stood at bay in an angle of the trellis 


100 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


work and Father Kelly caught his hand in a 
cordial grasp. He turned to Vera and she came 
nearer smiling; so they stood a moment looking 
out from their commanding position upon the 
river and hills, the quiet town touched now with 
twilight’s brush of soft color. 

"‘Bruce, my dear boy, and my dear Vera, it 

is from a full heart I say thank you, thank ” 

He broke ot¥ impatiently and looked wonderingly 
at them. “Now don’t those words sound fool- 
ish.” 

They laughed a little at this and Vera put her 
hand in the priest’s. Somehow she felt uplifted 
with this stalwart clergyman, her friend. The 
doubts and fears she had mentioned to Kenward 
no longer had a place in her mind. 

Bruce had strolled quite to the other end of 
the arbor and now called his friend. “Let’s see 
how much botany you’ve forgotten, Father; 
here’s a plant I want you to name.” 

Vera had turned to follow the priest when 
she saw Lesura descending the stairs. There 
was something about the girl’s manner, a hesita- 
tion, that caused her mistress to pause. “What 
is it, Lesura?” she asked quietly. 

“Your sister has come, Mrs. Wilton !” 

Vera gave a little gasp of surprise and her 
eyes dilated. ""Alice here!” And she put her 
foot upon the lower step. 

• “But, Mrs. Wilton, your sister said she didn’t 
want to be disturbed. She came to the side door. 
I took her up to the room next to yours because 
she looked just beat out, and I guess she was, 
for she dropped down on the bed. She said for 



It is from a full heart I say thank you 




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After Many Years 101 

you not to tell anyone that she was here, except 
Mr. Wilton.” 

''Call it’s name now, Father,” laughed Bruce 
from quite the other end of the arbor. "I’ll give 
you three guesses.” 

"But Bruce, let me think a moment.” 

His friend laughed and clapped him gaily on 
the shoulder. He turned toward Vera, "and this 
hard hearted monster used to keep me after 

hours because I flunked on botany ” His 

quick eye caught the troubled look on her face 
and he came to her, taking both her hands. 

She answered the unspoken question in his 
eyes, as Lesura at her nod went into the house. 
"Alice is here, Bruce; she doesn’t want anyone 
to know it.” 

"Alice always was peculiar, you know,” he 
smiled. "Come, now, don’t worry !” 

"I know, Bruce, but I feel as though some- 
thing were hanging over us.” 

Father Kelly came towards them in time to 
catch her last words. He took Vera’s hand gen- 
tly in his. "Well, ma’am,” he said, "if it drops, 
sure I’m here to catch it.” 

Vera clung to his broad palm for a moment, 
then the subtle sense of oppression was gone. 
"Thank you !” she murmured gratefully. 

"What’s the name of our friend in the urn. 
Father?” persisted Bruce. 

"Shamrock, you omadhaun,” triumphantly 
from his friend. 

"Right; didn’t think you’d guess it!” 

"More shame to you, then; do you think the 
old sod could disguise itself from a man who 
was born in Roscommon county?” 


102 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


“Hurroo!” cried Vera. 

Father Kelly patted her gently on the shoulder. 
‘^Ma'am,” he smiled, “if you’re not Irish, sure 
you ought to be.” 

“Uncle Brian.” It was Kathleen’s voice from 
the loggia. She stood there looking down at 
them a little timidly, one foot toying tentatively 
with the upper step. 

“And is that yourself, Kathleen?” Father 
Kelly smiled up at her. 

Kathleen ran down the steps. “Yes, I have a 
letter for you.” She handed it to him with a 
gjave air of matronly protection. 

Vera gave a little cry of penitence. “Oh, dear, 
can you forgive me? I was so happy at meet- 
ing Father Kelly that really I forgot all about 
you.” 

“Faith, I’m glad you came, Katy,” said the 
priest while Vera presented his niece to Bruce. 
He held up the note Kathleen had handed him 
and asked with a look for permission to open 
it. As Vera nodded over Kathleen’s courtesy- 
ing head, he broke the seal and added as he 
skimmed its contents, “Sure, Katy’s not been feel- 
ing quite herself of late.” 

“That’s too bad,” and Vera brushed back a 
stray lock from the girls broad white brow and 
smiled at her. 

“No message in that letter,” put in Bruce, who 
had moved over close to his friend’s shoulder, 
“that will prevent you and your niece dining 
with IIS?” 

' Father Kelly raised his head from the note 
and smiled. “This? No; ’tis only a notification 


103 


After Many Years 

that in ten months the lot on which my tent 
stands must be vacated/' 

Bruce put his arm about his friend’s shoulder. 
“We’ll have the Chapel of the Rosary ready by 
that time.” 

The priest nodded and gripped his hand. 
‘^Bruce, dear lad, you've made me very happy 
on this beautiful evening.” 

Their eyes wandered out from the arbor over 
the charming view that was spread before them. 
All the bright colors of the sun's glorious setting 
were gone. The sky was a canopy of pale blue, 
as though some invisible, mighty hand were 
spreading it over the world. Here and there a 
star glowed like a jeweled fastening in the robe 
of approaching night. A new moon was rising 
beyond the grove of saplings behind the trellis, 
its silver crescent seemed to cut the soft upper 
air like a scimitar worn at the side of some 
mighty monarch of the sky. Fireflies sparkled 
here and there, in the grass, upon the shrubs, 
trees, vines; below in the village lights twinkled 
and the sound of a stringed quartette could be 
plainly heard. 

^Tsn’t it heavenly?” murmured Vera softly. 
Her hand went out in the shadow and nestled 
in her husband's. 

The priest's eyes looked up into the fathom- 
less depth of the blue vault and he answered, 
after a pause, ‘‘Well, if Heaven is more beau- 
tiful than this, faith, I don't think I could 
stand it.” 

And now, the windows of the house glowed, 
a shaft of amber light cut the growing darkness 


104 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


of the loggia and its steps from a jewelea lamp 
placed high over the main doorway. 

“And what do you call your place asked the 
priest. 

“Eden,” said Bruce, smiling. 

“After the Garden of Eden,” explained Vera. 
“Bruce named it.” 

Father Kelly shook his finger admonishingly 
at his hostess. “Aha, but don’t forget, there was 
a serpent in that garden long ago, with a forked 
tongue that did more mischief than all the world 
has been able to repair since !” 

They laughed at this for a moment, then Bruce 
replied, “No serpent here. Father Kelly!” 

“Then it’s not Eden, dear boy 1” 

“Ah!” cried Vera. “If there is a serpent here 
find it! Do as St. Patrick did in your country 
and drive it out !” She put her arm about Kath- 
leen and smiled down at her. 

The priest made her a low bow and turned 
his right cuff back grimly. *'Oh, I’ll do the driv-j 
ing fast enough, but I must find the serpent 
first.” He searched the dim corners of the arbor 
with his keen gray eyes. 

“Call him,” suggested Bruce. “Any well con- 
ducted serpent ought to answer.” 

■ Father Kelly turned on him. “Will you have 
done with your jokes, Bruce? ’Tis a serious busi-! 
ness, this serpent hunting.” 

Laughingly, Vera drew Kathleen toward the 
steps. “Come in to dinner,” she called to them. 
(“Bruce, you must hurrv and dress!” 

I ^ “True for you, Vera,” s?»id the Father. “Sure, 
this serpent may be in the house!” 


After Many Years 


105 


Bruce shouted with laughter at this and they 
drew nearer the broad staircase. 

"‘Well, Bruce, old man!’' It was Kenward 
Wright coming to meet them in most correct 
dinner dress, his hand stretched out to his old 
friend, who greeted him warmly. 

Veia turned with her charming smile and pre- 
sented him to Kathleen; then she turned to the 
priest. “Father Kelly, this is Mr. Kenward 
Wright, one of our oldest and dearest friends." 

“Father Kelly!" Kenward took the extended 
hand with a frank, good humored smile, then he 
ran up the steps and laughed a question at his 

hostess. “Vera, I’m starving, can we ’’ Their 

voices broke into cheerful raillery as they mount- 
ed the stairs. 

But Father Kelly did not follow directly. He 
stood silent, a puzzled look on his anxious face. 
His eyes looked straight up into the deep vault 
of blue as though he sought an answer there to 
some question in his mind. 

“I — wonder," he murmured; and then went 
slowly up the stairs. 


106 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER IX 
The Note of Discord 

T HAT/^ lau^Sfhed Vera from the head of 
the table, “is a very good story. Father 
Kelly.” 

He sat upon her right in the broad, low ceiled 
dining room. The round table, charmingly deco- 
rated had been moved a little nearer the open 
fire, for Vera loved to hear the crackle and snap 
of oak wood at this hour, and besides the even- 
ings were a little cool. 

Dinner with the Wiltons was something more 
than feeding. The room was rich in plain woods 
in their natural colors; the light fell in a sub- 
dued glow from the ornate bell-shaped glass over 
the table’s center; those who helped the guests 
came and went like shadows. You talked if 
you cared to do so; you kept silence if that 
suited ycu better, and in any event you were 
sure to leave the house with a tranquillity rarely 
attained in these modern days of rush and 
hurry. Many celebrities had sat at the Wiltons’ 
board. Over in the angle near the window, was 
.scratched on the dark oak wainscoting, the name 
of the foremost English speaking actress and this 
was balanced on the opposite side by a French 
man of letters, whose name is a synonym for 
the best in literature. 

“A very good story,” Vera repeated and 
glanced about the table for confirmation of her 
judgment. 


The Note of Discord 


107 


They all nodded lazily. That portion of the 
dinner had been reached where Contentment 
waits, and in the soft glow of the amber light and 
the flickering candles this mythical presence had 
seized upon them all. 

“Kathleen looks a little pale, Father; or is it 
the lights and the novelty?’^ 

Father Kelly stole a look at his niece and nod- 
ded. “She’s not been quite well of late. No,” 
he went on in answer to her unspoken question, 
“I don’t think it’s anything serious ; sure, a young 
girl like that has all sorts of mental fancies.” 

At the other end of the table, Bruce looked 
up and laughed. “You want to hear this, Vera, 
and Father Kelly, your niece is telling us a mind 
reading story.” 

“Well,” remonstrated Kathleen slyly, “I don’t 
know that I’d call it mind reading, but he found 
the needle and he was blindfolded.” 

“That explodes one of the dear old fictions of 
our youth, good people.” Kenward looked at the 
faces about the table, smiling a little at his 
thought. “Traditional needle in a hay mow, or 
was it hay stack? Anyway, it was a symbol of 
the impossible, gone now with the advent of Miss 
O’Connor’s blindfolded prodigy.” 

Kathleen turned to him. “Mine? Why, he 
didn’t belong to me.” 

The room rang with their laughter at this de- 
nial. Vera put up her hand. “You mustn’t 
allow Ken to tease you, dear.” 

“Hadn’t the remotest idea of doing so, Vera.” 

“He’s a dreadful tease,” persisted Vera; 
“sometimes when you don’t realize what he’s 

about.” 

8 


108 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Kenward laughed and leaned back in his chair. 
The deft servant slipped his empty plate away 
and substituted with the ease of legerdermain 
the coffee and cigarettes. Thoughtfully he took 
one of the slender white cylinders in his fingers, 
asked permission of Kathleen, his neighbor, and 
Father Kelly and bent over the flaming taper the 
silent form at his side held out. 

“Really, Fm not teasing, Vera, but mind read- 
ing always excites me to unrighteous mirth.” 

“You don’t believe in anything of that sort, 
then?” Bruce rested his elbow on the table and 
studied the ash of his cigarette. 

“I’m not experienced, never had a thought in 
my brain worth reading.” 

Bruce turned to the priest. “How about it. 
Father Kelly?” 

“Ah, my dear fellow, that’s not a subject to 
be settled in a word.” He nodded his head 
gravely. 

Vera looked up from a whispered order she 
was giving a servant, who went out quietly 
through the heavy hangings at the further end 
of the room. “Wait, I’m awfully interested,” 
she said. “Mind reading — telepathy they call it 
now — don’t they?” 

“Any name is good enough for such an idiotic 
theory,” interjected Kenward. 

“Let Father Kelly talk to us about it,” Bruc# 
interrupted him. 

The priest looked at the intent faces about him 
and smiled. “Bruce, dear, no man can talk much 
about such an abstruse subject. We’re all just like 
children who are groping their way toward the 


The Note of Discord 


109 


light. No one knows, but I think we all feel 
that sometimes we graze the border land of a 
world unseen.” 

‘T don’t,” laughed Kenward. "One world at 
a time is good enough for me.” 

Father Kelly looked at him intently for a long 
moment before he replied. "But you’re young 
yet, Mr. Wright, there are many years before 
you.” 

And so the conversation went on, punctuated 
with their laughter, while the velvet shod servant 
found Lee and delivered his message from Mrs. 
Wilton. 

The boy was curled up in a chair in the 
kitchen, a book in his hands. He put it down 
and stared. "Get Mr. Charles Harrow,” he re- 
peated. "Why sure,” and after some mysterious 
preparations in his own particular comer, he dis- 
appeared through the screen door that led to the 
grounds. 

Lesura saw him go and wondered. Anything 
this strange mortal did was of interest to her. 
She had tried to help with the dinner and was 
quietly banished by the expert butler after the 
first course. She noted the direction taken by 
Lee and tiptoed up the stairs unobserved by the 
others. From the study windows she could com- 
mand a wide stretch of the grounds and could 
see the result of the boy’s errand, but as she 
came through the curtains of the room, she 
paused, for her mistress’ sister was standing 
there, her hand on the knob of the door that 
led to the stairs above. 

Lesura paused. "Why, Miss Alice.” She had 


110 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

not intended to speak, but something in the girl's 
face made her feel that she needed sympathy. 

Alice half opened the door, then stopped and 
smiled. In figure, manner, expression she was 
Vera’s living counterpart, but the face was pale 
and the eyes looked weary, as thou^-h they had 
been studying a problem that baffled them. 
“You’re the girl who met me when I came this 
afternoon ?” 

Lesura nodded. “Yes’m, Lesura’s my name. 
Lesura Watkins from Bellows Falls, Vermont. 
It’s a grand place.” She added this half defi- 
antly to forestall the smile that usually greeted 
her mention of her native town. 

“I’ve no doubt it is!” 

“Mrs. Vera told me to stand ready if you 
wanted anything. You’ve woke up, haven't 
you ?” 

“Yes. They’re at dinner, aren’t they?” 

Lesura assented slowly. “Yes’m; that priest 
man is an awful nice fellow. I spilled some soup 
on him and he didn’t get mad a bit. But Mr. 
Butler did ; wouldn’t let me wait any more. 
Aren’t you hungry. Miss Alice?” 

A loud burst of laughter came from the din- 
ing room; they had dropped occult subjects and 
Father Kelly was telling them another story. 

• Alice shivered, the gaiety seemed to jar on 
her. She shook her head. “No, I’m going to 
my room. When my sister isn’t busy ask her 
to please come to me.” The door closed on her 
and Lesura heard her light step ascending the 
stairs. She looked all about her for some ex- 
planation of this strange conduct. “She’s a funny 


The Note of Discord 


111 


woman,” she reflected, then paused undecided 
whether to follow Alice or seek her sister. 

While she considered this problem, Charley 
Harrow entered the room from the garden. He 
was in dinner dress, but the frown on his face 
hardly matched his attire. Behind him marched 
Lee, his face set in lines of determination, and 
words of command on his lips. “Straight ahead 
for yours, Mr. Harrow !” 

Charley turned and leaned against the flat 
topped table desk that occupied the center of the 
room. “You’ve got a nerve, Martin.” 

Lee bowed calmly. “I only know my orders. 
‘Get Mr. Harrow,’ that was the message from 
Mrs. Vera. No,” as his charge made a move- 
ment towards the garden window, “don’t try to 
beat it.” 

“Why?” asked Charley curiously. 

“Because it will be my painful duty to stop 
you with this.” On his right hand, which he 
brought from behind him, was a well worn box- 
ing glove. 

“What’s that, Martin?” 

“An old five-ounce glove that I wore when I 
licked the Hoboken Terror. Now where will 
you have it ?” 

“So you’re a fighter, are you ?” 

“Please don’t make me prove it, Mr. Harrow.” 

Charley looked at him thoughtfully for a mo- 
ment, then drew his hands from his pockets* 
“Yes, I think I will. Time 1” 

Lesura had listened to them, realizing that the 
difference in opinion did not concern her, but 
fighting — that was a different matter. Bruce’s 


11 » 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


study where they stood was her particular prov- 
ince. Every morning she swept and dusted it, 
and it was her pride to have it looking attractive. 
She stepped between the two gladiators and 
raised her hand. *‘If you don’t stop,” she said 
calmly, “I’ll lick you both.” 

While they paused and stared at this sig^n of 
activity on Lesura’s part, Bruce Wilton parted 
the curtains of the arched opening to the hall. 
“Hello,” he exclaimed briskly, “what’s all this?” 

Lee bowed and repeated his formula. “Mrs. 
Vera sent me word to ‘get Mr. Harrow.’ ” Then 
he obeyed Bruce’s nod and went toward the 
hall slowly. 

“Why the deuce didn’t you come into dinner, 
Charley?” Bruce spoke with some asperity; he 
felt his patience going. 

The young man sighed deeply. “Fm not hun- 

What the devil ails you?” His woebegone 
air irritated Bruce. 

Lee fondled the boxing glove on his hand and 
came to Bruce’s elbow. “He needs exercise, 
boss!” 

A thought stole through Lesura’s mind. There 

had been a case in Bellows Falls when She 

gave her thought words, it might help. “Maybe 
he’s coming down with the mumps!” 

Bruce smiled : Charley turned on Lesura with 
an indignant shout, “I’m not !” 

' Thoughtfully Bruce put his hands in his pock- 
ets and went to a heavy mahogany escritoire. 
He had left the dining room to get a cigar for 
Kenward. 


The Note of Discord 


113 


Lesura went through the arch shaking, her 
head slowly. ‘Tt might be the mumps, after 
all.” 

She felt a touch on her arm and turned slowly, 
sudden movement or hasty feeling were impos- 
sibilities for her. 

Lee held the curtain of the arch back in his 
hand and smiled at her guilelessly. She had 
learned to dread that amused look. Her wide 
open eyes asked a question and he replied to it 
by volunteering information. “Amos is coming 
here tonight, Lesura.” 

Silence a moment while she gave the news 
her serious consideration. 

“Amos who ?” she asked. 

Lee bent over her, an appealing look on his 
face. “A-mos-quito — a-mos-qui-to.” He stood 
almost on tiptoe, his hands spread out in a broad 
gesture. Would she please laugh and save his 
reputation as a joker — would she? “Tell me 
that you see this one,” he implored, “or the river 
will get me.” 

Lesura looked at him and wondered. “Mos- 
quitoes are here every night, Mr. Martin.” Then 
she started to go on, to reason with him, to ask 
him why he attached so much importance, to 

But Lee reeled back from her and put his 
handkerchief to his eyes; firmly he took himself 
by the coat lapel and his voice grew stern. “This 
way out, young man, don’t try to resist an officer 
of the law. You are under arrest.” 

While she gazed after him as he vanished 
through the hall, Bruce called her: “Lesura, take 
my cigar case to Mr. Wright!” 


114 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


But Kenward came from the dining room as 
she turned to go; in fact, they nearly collided. 

“Hello, Lesura,” Kenward called cheerily, as 
he took the extended case. “In another moment 
Fd have hugged you.” He selected a cigar care- 
fully and tossed the case to Bruce with a nod of 
thanks. Then he looked down at the serious 
face. “What would you have done then?” 

She reflected on this proposition calmly. “Fll 
have to think it over.” Then she backed slowly 
out through the arch. 

Both Kenward and Bruce laughed at Lesura’s 
reply, but young Harrow stood gloomily silent. 

“Ah,” said Kenward as he lighted his cigar; 
“there's a strange girl; takes you literally every 
time.” He tossed the match away and leaned 
on the broad mantel. “Talking with Charley 
Grouch, eh, Bruce?” 

“Hold on now, Ken ” began his victim 

fiercely, but Bruce cut him short. 

“That's a good name for you, by Jove, Charley 
Grouch.” 

“Isn't it,” admired Kenward lazily; then he 
blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling and 
asked of it. “What's biting Charley?” 

The object of their laughter replied with a 
sudden burst of feeling. “Oh, you can laugh, 
but you don't know what it is to have a secret 
sorrow eating into your life; you who only see 
the outside, without a thought of what lies in 
here, in here.” He gesticulated wildly, then 
thrust his hands into his pockets and went out 
through the broad French window into the gar- 
den. 


The Note of Discord 


115 


“Well, ejaculated Bruce in amazement; “what 
do you think of that?’^ 

Kenward answered in a careless drawl, “I think 
our young friend had best see a doctor.” 

“Confound him ; I’m beginning to worry about 
the youngster.” 

Kenward strolled over to him smiling. “That 
all of your worries, old man?” 

Bruce shook his head impatiently; try as he 
would there had been a vague feeling of op- 
pression hanging over him. “I wish,” he said 
slowly, “that I was a little surer of the stock 
market tomorrow.” 

“That’s the penalty you pay, Bruce, for want- 
ing more money.” 

Bruce puffed energetically at his cigar. “May- 
be,” he answered thoughtfully. 

Evidently Kenward was interested. He sat on 
the broad desk and played with a silver paper 
knife. “A big deal on, eh, Bruce?” 

“Yes, every dollar I have is at stake.” 

“Ah ; risky this stock market game ; that’s why 
I keep out of it. Well, good luck to you !” 

Bruce broke in abruptly. “Ken, you know 
me pretty well, who’s this enemy of mine ” 

“Enemy?” Kenward stared at him. “What 
the devil are you talking about?” 

“A fact, Ken. Queer things have happened 
to me lately. Three times I’ve just missed land- 
ing a big deal.” 

The tall, blonde man on the table laughed and 
swung his foot to and fro. “Well, suppose you 
have, you can’t win every time. Spoil the ex- 
citement, wouldn’t it?” 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 




“I know that, but it’s happened when I was 
sure, when I had told no one of my plans. Ken 
it’s as though someone had a mental control over 
me and meant my ruin.” 

“How can you talk such nonsense?” laughed 
Kenward. 

“But I feel it,” persisted Bruce. “Who in the 
devil’s name is it?” 

“You haven’t an enemy in the whole world.” 

“I have.” Bruce’s voice was earnest. “The 
feeling has been absent for the past few weeks; 
tonight,” he brought his clenched hand down 
heavily on the desk before him, “tonight it has 
come back.” 

. Kenward started to reply, but paused as Vera 
came through the arch from the dining room 
with Father Kelly, their heads bent over a blue- 
print of the Chapel of the Rosary. 

“Don’t disturb Vera with such notions, Bruce, 
you’ll only worry her,” and Kenward put his 
hand on his friend’s shoulders and shook him 
gently. 

“You know I can hardly believe it even now, 
Vera,” Father Kelly was saying. 

“What, not after this tangible evidence?” She 
laid the blueprint on the desk and leaned over it 
smiling at him. “You see,” she went on gaily, 
“that’s the organ loft, a little gallery quite by 
itself, right where I can look down on you while 
I am playing.” 

He looked into her eager young face and his 
lips trembled a little; there was about Father 
Kelly a twist of character that was thoroughly 
feminine. Feeling was sudden and swift with 


The Note of Discord 117 

him, and his mental processes often moved quite 
by intuition. A wonderful smile stole over his 
ruddy, clean shaven face, and he shook his head 
at her. “Well, if I can’t preach with your eyes 
on me, sure then I’d better resign.” 

She laughed and turned away to Bruce, who 
came across the room to them. “Bruce, dear,” 
she said, “Kathleen’s looking through the books 
in the library. She’s quite mad over Irish his- 
tory and I told her you had several rare edi- 
tions.” Then her quick eye caught the suspicion 
of trouble in his eyes, and she drew nearer him 
with ready sympathy. “Troubled about anything, 
Bruce?” 

Manfully, Bruce shook off his morbid 
thoughts. He laughed and patted her hand 
“Nothing in the world, dear!” 

Father Kelly had discreetly withdrawn with 
the blueprint to the corner of the mantel. Ken- 
ward lounged over to him and studied the draw- 
ing. “A fine chapel, Father Kelly!” 

The priest looked up quickly and he studied 
Kenward for a moment. Something almost like 
a frown showed on his fine, intellectual face, then 
he threw the feeling off and answered heartily, 
“Ah, you may well say that, Mr. Wright, and 
Mrs. Wilton has just been telling me of all the 
decorations and how my pulpit is to be finished 
in pure gold, think of that, sir.” 

Vera spoke to Bruce softly, her hand on the 
knob of the door leading to the stairs. “I’m 
going to see Alice. You haven’t told Ken or 
the others she’s here?” 

Bruce shook his head and opened the door for 
Ber, “Want me to go with you, dear?” 


118 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


“No ; Lesura said Alice asked me to come up.” 
She put her foot on the lower stair, then paused. 
“Oh, where’s Charley?” 

Kenward heard her question and came forward 
laughing. “Roaming about the grounds in the 
moonlight.” 

“That youngster’s crazy, Vera,” put in Bruce 
testily. 

Vera ran up two steps and leaned over the 
stair rail. “Have Father Kelly talk to Charley,” 
she cried laughingly ; “he’ll cure him.” 

“That’s a good idea.” Bruce closed the door 
on Vera and pressed a button for a servant. 

“Wonder we didn’t think of it before,” echoed 
Kenward. 

Father Kelly laid down his cherished blueprint 
and came over to them, a question in his eyes. 
“And who’s Charley, if you please, gentlemen?” 

“Vera’s cousin,” Kenward replied. “I think 
his trouble is caused by having too much money.” 

“Now you interest me,” smiled the priest. *T’d 
like to see one human being who suffered from 
that complaint.” 

Bruce waved his hand smiling. “You shall. 
Father,” and, as the curtains parted he turned 
to Lee, who had answered his summons. “Lee, 

will you ” Then he paused for the boy was 

not looking at him nor did he hear the beginning 
of the order. His eyes were fastened upon Fa- 
ther Kelly with a look of absolute^ adoration. 

“Well, well, well,” cried the priest joyfully, 
“if it isn’t my old friend Lee Martin.” 

Lee nodded, just then he couldn’t speak, some- 
thing in his throat kept back the words. “How 
are you, Father?” he managed finally to stammer. 


The Note of Discord 


119 


‘*GDme here to me, lad, and give me a grip of 
your hand,” and he shook it vigorously. “Well, 
well, and what are you doing here, my boy?” 

The boy drew himself up proudly. “Fm Mr. 
Wilton’s valet de chambre, and then some.” 

‘T don’t know what that is, my lad, but it 
sounds very important.” 

They looked at each other silently for a mo- 
ment ; each was thinking of that other meeting, 
when the city slept and the gray dawn was near. 
It flashed through the boy’s mind how different 
things might have been if he had chosen another 

house that night for his depredation, if 

Then he looked his friend square in the eye. “And 
I’m on the level, too,” he cried. “I’m so level. 
Father Kelly, you could put billiard balls on me 
and they wouldn’t roll off.” 

The priest made a quick gesture of perfect 
understanding, then Kenward struck in coldly. 
“One would infer from that remark that you were 
at one time ” His long, taper fingers com- 

pleted the sentence with the sly movement of the 
pickpocket. 

Lee followed and comprehended the gesture. 
He nodded calmly. “Sure, Mr. Wright, I was a 
crook.” 

Kenward took a step toward Bruce, who only 
smiled. Something of all this he knew from 
Lee’s own words, the particulars he had never 
sought. 

“Why, do you know how I first met up with 
Father Kelly?” Lee went on, “I broke into his 
house; that is, I thought I did, but the door 


120 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


wasn’t locked. Father there caught me dead t» 
rights and he bluffed the fly cop that trailed me 
— and saved me. That’s what you did, saved me 
from going to jail — gave me a chance to go 
straight, and it’s me for you every time.” He 
took a step nearer his friend and there was in 
his eyes the light of utter and complete devo- 
tion. “Why, Father Kelly, I’d go to ” 

The priest raised one finger warningly, his 
young friend’s ardor was carrying him a little 
too far. 

“Well,” said Lee, half regretfully at not be- 
ing allowed to name the exact limits of his re- 
gard ; “well. I’d go there for you,” and he point- 
ed to the supposed location of the fiery region 
energetically. 

Father Kelly laid his arm across the boy’s 
shoulders and smiled at him. “Thank you, my 
lad, but I’d rather see you travel in a different 
direction.” 

“Yes,” said Bruce. “Suppose you find Mr. 
Harrow and bring him here.” 

“What, again ?” Lee was surprised into a ques- 
tion regarding orders. 

“I want to meet him, lad.” 

Lee bowed and went to the open window. 
“You bet you will. Father Kelly, if I have to 
uppercut him to bring him,” and he went out 
into the garden quickly. 

There was a smile of contentment on the 
priest’s face as he watched the boy. Cases there 
were in his experience when his confidence had 
been abused, when the opportunity for reforma- 
tion, though held out with eager hands, had not 


The Note of Discord 


131 


been grasped. But in this case every prayer of 
his heart had been answered. “Well, well, what 
do you think of that?” He turned to Kenward 
and Bruce who were both watching him. 

“Personally I think I should lock up the silver.” 
There was a cynical ring in Kenward’s tone that 
rasped. 

Father Kelly looked at him quietly. “Then 
you have small confidence in humanity, Mr. 
Wright?” 

“None at all, have you?” 

The direct question brought a new light into 
the priest’s eyes. He came toward his questioner 
slowly, and all the weight of his experience spoke 
in his low, musical voice. “Well, Mr. Wright, 
I’ve lived sixty years in this gray, beautiful old 
world, and I believe His love is in every human 
heart, ’tis a part of Himself, and though it may 
be choked with weeds and evil thoughts, still He 
lives and reigns in every soul of man.” 

Something seemed to stir in the summer air 
as he finished, a subtle atmosphere of peace crept 
into the room. 

Kenward shook his shoulders impatiently and 
laughed. “Yes, but it’s your business to believe 
that; you’re a priest, you know.” 

Color crept slowly into Father Kelly’s face — 
there was a glint of steel in his eyes — at the 
tone. Flippancy he despised. A good joke found 
in him ready response — a human note always 
sounded a responding chord in his heart, but idle 
jests at life, duty, love, met his stern disapproval. 

Bruce had turned to expostulate with Kenward, 
but the priest silenced him with a look. Then 


122 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


his eyes looked piercingly at Kenward and his 
voice sank low. ^‘And you’re a man, Mr. Wright, 
and it should be your business to help the priest 
to foster and bring to light even the smallest 
particle of good in the lowliest of God’s crea- 
tures.” 

There was silence in the room for a mo- 
ment. Outside the wind had risen and was croon- 
ing the promise of a wild night ; clouds had cov- 
ered the moon, flying fast before the rising gale. 

Kenward moved over to the arch, that led to 
the library, and shook his head. '‘Want to make 
a missionary of me, eh? No, thanks.” 

As the heavy curtains closed on him, the priest 
moved forward quickly, then paused. Some 
thought seemed to move him, a sensation, a feel- 
ing. He turned to Bruce who, leaning over the 
jdesk, questioned him with his eyes. 

“Bruce, dear,” said Father Kelly slowly, “I’m 
sorry, but I don’t like your friend.” 


Two Sisters and a Secret 


123 


CHAPTER X 
Two Sisters and a Secret 
ERA’S mind was far from tranquil as she 



went up the stairs. The vague feeling of 


worry about her sister had crystalized to an 
anxious query in her mind. Alice’s manner of 
arrival, her seclusion, and now the summons 
through Lesura, all combined to knit Vera’s white 
forehead into sharp interrogations. She knocked 
on the door of her sister’s room, which adjoined 
her own, and receiving no reply, gently opened it 
and looked in. There was no light in the apart- 
ment, but, by the faint beams from the half ob- 
scured moon, she could make out a figure stand- 
ing at the open window. 

''Alice,” she called gently. 

The girl turned with a smothered cry and 
put out both her hands as though warding off 
someone or some fancied danger. 

"Who is it?” she asked, in a choked whisper. 

"Vera, dear; did I frighten you?” and she 
came towards her quickly. 

"Just a little.” Their hands clasped and then 
the common heritage of blood sent them into 
each other’s arms. For a long moment they 
clung together, then Vera suddenly put her hands 
on her sister’s shoulders and held her away from 
herself. 

"Alice, dear, you’re crying.” 

"No, I’m not ; really. I’m not.” 

Vera shook her head slowly. "You are, I felt 
a tear on my hand.” 


124 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


Alice turned from her to the window and 
leaned against the sill. Outside the wind had 
risen and the trees and shrubs made eery shad- 
ows on the lawn as they swayed before it. A 
flying wraith of clouds was in the sky, and the 
moon only showed at intervals. Beyond the 
river, low down on the horizon line, but climbing 
steadily toward the zenith, a black bulk crouched 
that promised storm. There was a hint of light- 
ning to the northward. 

“Dear girl,” and Vera laid her hand gently on 
her sister's, “won’t you tell me?” 

“Tell you what?” Alice’s voice was very low, 
but Vera felt the quiver of pain in its tone. 

She paused a moment and slipped her arm 
about Alice’s waist and laid her cheek close to 
hers. Somehow she felt that her sister needed 
her. The impression was vague. She could not 
put it into words, so she waited a moment in 
silence. 

But Alice did not speak. At Vera’s touch 
there was a slight recoil. Vera felt it, but 
checked her impulse to speak, to question. And 
so they stood there, one searching, questioning; 
the other half withdrawing as though she feared. 

“That’s a new way you are wearing your hair, 
dear,” said Vera finally. “I can hardly see in 
this light, but I think it becomes you better than 
the old manner. She took a step away towards 
the electric button, but Alice, with a swift move- 
ment, caught her hand. 

“Don’t,” she said quickly. 

Vera clasped her other hand over her sister’s 
and laughed. “Don’t what, Alice?” 


Two Sisters and a Secret 


125 


‘Td rather you wouldn't turn on the light." 

“Why, dear?" 

“Because — oh, it’s a queer fancy, but you 
know I always loved to sit in the dark and look 
out of the window and watch the clouds race 
across the moon." 

“You were always a strange girl, dear. What 
odd stories you used to invent. The clouds 
were castles in which we were to live, and the 
stars were the lamps we had placed to light our 
thousands of soldiers on their homeward march." 

Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Alice 
clenched her hand and brought it down before 
her on the window sill. 

“If we could only go back to those days, 
Vera! If we could throttle Time, make him re- 
verse his glass, force him to give us back our 
yesterdays. Count each grain of sand that has 
slipped through his wrinkled fingers. Then, why 
then, we could throw away the black ones, the 
mistakes we had made and leave only those that 
were pure gold." 

A sharp squall in the upper heavens drove the 
gathering storm battalions away, and the window 
was flooded with moonlight. Vera saw her sis- 
ter’s face etched against the dark background 
of the trees. It was writhing with pain, deep 
circles showed under the eyes, the lips were 
quivering as though some pent up anguish was 
striving to break forth. She wound her arms 
about her sister and all the love of years spoke 
through her lips. 

“Alice, dear, you’re suffering, suffering terri- 
bly. Do you suppose I don’t know? Do you 


126 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


think you can deceive me? You can’t, dear, 
you can’t. We’ve been too much to each other 
in the years that have gone. Do you think I’ve 
forgotten how we worked and played together 
way out there, just we two little motherless girls, 
alone on the prairie? How we kept the house, 
and one day you would be the housekeeper and 
I the servant; the next day we changed places, 
and always, dear, always, we worked for each 
other and for dear old dad, because — because — 
mother’s last words to us were: ‘Be good to 
daddy, he’ll miss mother, miss her awfully, and, 
and you girls must take mother’s place.’ Alice, 
dear, think of those days and tell me what trou- 
bles you.” 

She had wound her arms around her sister; 
her face was pressed close to hers. For one 
moment Alice faltered, seemed to yield, and then 
she roughly broke away from the loving clasp 
and started toward the door. 

“Alice.” Vera’s voice had a note of pain in it. 
She took a step toward her. 

“Don’t.” It was a cry, low and full of pain. 
“You mustn’t talk to me like that, Vera ; not to- 
night. I can’t stand it — I ” She grasped 

the back of the chair near her and fought for 
command of herself. Then, with one supreme 
effort, she steadied herself and put out her hand 
towards the door. 

But Vera would not be denied. With a swift 
movement she was across the room and even 
as Alice turned the knob her own hand closed 
over it. 

“No,” she panted, breathlessly. “No, no, I 


Two Sisters and a Secret 127 

won^t let you go like this. You’re my sister. I 
know you’re in pain; that you’re suffering, and 
Alice, dear, you’ve got to tell me.” She paused 
and peered through the darkness at the slim, 
gray figure before her. “Alice, do you hear?” 

“Yes, Vera, I hear.” 

“You must tell me.” 

“I— I can’t.” 

“Why?” 

“Because, I don’t know, I’m — I’m ” She 

threw out her hands with the despairing gesture 
of one who wanders in darkness, groping for 
some faint sign, some landmark to guide her 
wandering footsteps home. 

Vera went slowly to her and caught both the 
outstretched hands. “Dear,” she said, soothing- 
ly, “take time and think ” 

Alice caught her breath sharply. “Think, as if 
I had done anything else for months past. All 
the way coming here I thought. I couldn’t sleep. 
I haven’t closed my eyes for two nights ; and, oh, 
how I longed to see you, feel your arms about 
me.” 

Vera drew her close and both were silent for 
a moment. 

“And then when I arrived, I couldn’t bear 

to meet you. I — I just came up here and ” 

her voice died away to a whisper. 

Vera held her sister to her and felt bewildered. 
Life had touched her lightly; only its lighter 
hues were known to her. Bruce had taken her 
into his heart and life; she felt only the joy 
of existence. Everything about her breathed 
peace, contentment, happiness. She knew little 


1S8 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


of the dark pools of life where human souls 
fight and struggle against fate, against sin. 
Yet her instinct was so true, her sympathy so 
keen, that she divined something here that had 
never touched her before. Then she wondered if, 
after all, she were wise enough to deal with what 
she felt was a crisis in her sister's life. Per- 
haps She caught her breath as a sudden 

inspiration came to her. 

“Alice, dear,' she said, smoothing back 
the disordered brown hair and kissing her gently, 
“I want you to do something for me. There’s a 
dear friend of Bruce’s down stairs ; talk to him. 

It’s Father Kelly, and ” She paused, for Alice 

had shrunk away from her almost violently. 

“No, no," she whispered. Then she grasped 
Vera’s arm. “Promise me you won’t tell him 
I’m here, or that I’ve talked like this; promise, 
Vera, please!" 

“Of course not, dear, if you don’t want me 
to ; but, Alice, I wish you would.’’ 

Her sister shook her head violently. 

“Then, dear, tell me what troubles you." 

Alice fell to pacing the room, her head sunk 
on her breast, both hands locked behind her. 

From below came the sound of a piano. Ken- 
ward was playing the latest rollicking vaudeville 
song to Kathleen in the music room. 

Vera watched her sister and a great fear rose 
up and clutched at her heart. She knew how 
hard Alice had worked. There had been no va- 
cation for her. Ambition in the girl burned like 
a white flame. To advance, to do, achieve, that 
had always been the rule of her life. It came 


Two Sisters and a Secret 129 

home to her the nervous force that a teacher 
must expend. Perhaps the frail physical self 
was rebelling, had broken under the constant 
strain. She caught her breath sharply and put 
out her hand as though to put away from her a 
presence that threatened. 

“Alice, dear,” she entreated again, “won’t you 
speak, you’re — you’re frightening me. 

The quiver in her voice brought Alice to her 
side. She put her arms about her and hushed 
her gently. 

“Don’t worry, Vera; it’s — it’s just nerves, 
that’s all. I want a breath of fresh air.” She 
caught up a fleecy wrap and threw it over her 
head and about her shoulders. “Go back to your 
guests, dear. I’ll just take a turn in the grounds, 
and retire. I think I shall sleep soundly tonight. 
Tomorrow we’ll talk.” 

“I wonder if I ought to let you go, Alice?” 

“Of course. Kiss me. I can go down this 
way. You’re a dear girl, Vera, and I love you.” 

Vera stood on the landing and watched her 
as she opened the side door and slipped through 
it into the grounds. Alice looked back at her 
sister and smiled up at her, but there was a piti- 
ful tremor in her hands, and her face showed 
pale under the hall light. 

Vera watched her, and was conscious of 
the same vague feeling of oppression. She lifted 
her hand to her face and stared after her. 

“What can it be that troubles Alice ?” she asked 
herself. 


130 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER XI 

The Wisdom of Father Kelly 

B ruce stared at Father Kelly as he deliv- 
ered his opinion regarding Kenward. 

“Don’t like Ken !” he cried, amazed. 
“Why, he’s the best fellow in the world.” 

.The priest nodded sagely. “He may be so, 
but he has a mighty fine way of concealing it.” 

Bruce shook his finger accusingly at his friend. 
“You’re angry. Father.” 

“I’m not.” The tone was one of indignant 
denial. “The cloth I wear forbids me to give 
way to anger.” His face grew pensive with a 
great desire. “It would do me a world of good 
to take Mr. Wright gently by the arm, lead him 
out on the lawn” — his right hand seemed to close 
unconsciously — “and quietly beat the head off 

him ” Bruce coughed as a gentle reminder of 

mundane things, and Father Kelly looked at his 
clenched hand, then spread it abroad with a large 
and an all-embracing gesture as he added grimly : 
“But I am not angry.” 

“But you’re very human,” added Bruce, laugh- 
ing. 

Father Kelly started to reply, but paused as 
Charley Harrow, with his head down, a settled 
expression of gloom upon his face, came into the 
cheerful study with Lee convoying him. 

“Here he is. Father Kelly,” and the boy’s tone 
was triumphant. 


The Wisdom of Father Kelly 131 

Charley sighed in a resigned way. “Want me, 
Bruce?” 

“Yes, Charley.” Bruce nodded to Lee, who 
went through the arch with a backward look of 
keen enjoyment. “This is my old friend and tu- 
tor, the Reverend Brian Kelly, Mr. Harrow.” 

The young man bowed mournfully and sighed, 
“Glad to know you, sir.” 

“The pleasure is mutual, Mr. Harrow.” The. 
priest was studying this new acquaintance care- 
fully. 

Bruce smiled at them both and parted the cur- 
tains at the arched opening. “I want you to talk 
freely to Father Kelly, Charley.” He nodded 
quietly and the draperies closed upon him. 

Young Harrow sighed again, and made a wry 
face. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the 
priest move over to the desk, that occupied the 
center of the room, and deliberately draw a heavy 
armchair toward it. 

“The usual thing, I suppose,” he muttered, set- 
tling his chin in his collar and squaring his shoul- 
ders as one does who is about to face an ordeal. 
“Going to talk about my soul or something of 
that kind ; then give me a lecture on religion ” 

“Young man,” broke in Father Kelly, briskly, 
“do you think John L. Sullivan in his prime could 
have whipped Jack Johnson ?” 

Young Harrow turned with a gasp and caught 
at the back of a chair for support. 

“Wha — what? What did you say?” he asked, 
after a pause. 

Father Kelly leaned back in his chair smiling. 
He was accustomed to this astonishment in those 


132 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


who did not realize, that the priest must first be 
a man with a heart full of universal sympathy, 
and complete understanding of all that makes up 
life. 

“Could the old lion of the ring have faced John- 
son?” he queried musingly. “It’s a mighty big 
question, so take your time before you answer.” 

Charley passed his hand nervously over his 
forehead. A priest, to his untaught mind had 
always meant a long face and conversation lim- 
ited to theology. He looked at the wholesome, 
clear cut features before him and stammered: 
“Are you a priest?” 

“Wouldn’t you know that to look at me, lad?” 

Charley shook his head slowly. “Not by your 
face ; it’s ruddy and smiling. You look as though 
you were happy !” 

“I am, praise be.” There was positiveness in 
Father Kelly’s tone. “Shouldn’t a man be happy 
whose life work is to serve mankind?” 

It was a new point of view to the young man. 
He nodded slowly, then took a step toward the 
priest as a new thought came to him. “But I’m 
not of your faith.” 

Father Kelly waved his hand, smilingly. This 
too was an objection he had met often. Then his 
face grew spiritual and his voice filled the ample 
room. 

“And what difference does that make ? 
I’ll tell you. None at all. Lack of trust in the 
Creator’s power has, in the past, put up bars be- 
tween mankind. But today it is dawning upon 
the whole world, that we are all one large family 
journeying on together, and that the one great, 


The Wisdom of Father Kelly 133 

eternal faith is a belief in the power of God’s 
love.” 

The soft cadence of his voice was like an an- 
them: it stirred the hidden depths of life. 

Charley took a step forward, drawn by the 
broad humanity, the simple force of one who 
knew. 

“That’s a great thought, Father Kelly.” 

The priest looked up at him quietly and smiled. 
His kindly eyes studied the young man. “You 
believe I’m human then, just a man like your- 
self?” 

Charley’s hand went out and clasped that of 
the priest. “I like you,” he said heartily. 

“Thank you, lad ; I like you. Will you talk to 
me?” 

Down into the chair facing the priest dropped 
Charley Harrow. The frown was gone from his 
face and he was smiling. “You bet I will.” 

“The mighty Sullivan had a wonderful right 
hand,” mused Father Kelly, “and our friend Jack 
Johnson depends upon his upper cut; those are 
the factors in the equation, my boy, and what’s 
the answer?” 

“Father Kelly,” cried the now thoroughly in- 
terested Charley Harrow, “you know something 
about boxing.” 

“Whisper,” and the priest leaned toward him 
confidentially : “I have a large and growing class 
in the manly art of self defense in my parish here. 
Come to my tent on Wednesday night and I’ll 
show you some championship timber.” 

“I’ll be there. Father!” 

“Take Mickey Hurley,” went on the priest. 


134 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

‘‘A great lad, his footwork is wonderful; some- 
times I think he has wing^ on them ; and his left 
hand punch — well, it's very deceiving." He broke 
off abruptly and changed his subject. ‘‘What's on 
your mind, lad ?" 

Charley pushed his chair back and frowned. 
“Nothing," he said, gloomily. 

“What talk have you ?" cried the priest cheerily. 
“Come now, don't close up like a clam at low 
water. Talk to me!” 

“I can't." 

“Why not?" 

“It's a secret sorrow. Father; it's locked in 
here I" 

“Oho!" and the Father’s eyes were sparkling 
now. “Maybe I have the key.” 

“No,” despondently ; “no one has it." 

“Is that so?” He brought the tips of his 
fingers together and looked at the young man 
steadily. “Miss Vera tells me you won’t eat, or 
sleep ; that you go out of nights and gaze at the 

moon. Yes, yes — well " He bent over the 

desk and darted a question at him swiftly : 
'‘Whafs her name?’' 

Mr. Charles Harrow came up out of his chair 
as though an electric current had suddenly passed 
through him. “Eh, why, why " 

Father Kelly leaned back in his chair and 
smiled with the wisdom gained by many such 
delvings into human nature. “You heard me,” 
he said, firmly. ^'What’s her name? Aha! did 
I turn the key on that secret sorrow — yes or no ?" 

Charley fumbled for his handkerchief and 
blushed furiously. “Why — I How the 


135 


The Wisdom of Father Kelly 

devil!” He checked himself quickly, the ex- 
clamation had somehow slipped through his lips. 
‘T beg your pardon. Father Kelly,” he stam- 
mered. 

The Father, contrary to expectation, did not 
wince. Instead he smiled broadly. “Sure and 
you needn’t, my boy. Why should you? I’m 
fighting, the devil every day, so why should I 
shiver at the mention of his name ?” 

Charley shook his head. “I don’t know.” 

“Are you going to tell me her name, lad?” 

“How did you know. Father?” 

“Young man,” and the priest’s smile was won- 
derful in its all-embracing kindliness. “I can see 
you’re sound. There’s color in your cheeks — light 
in your eyes. Well, in my experience, when a 
healthy lad leaves his dinner and goes gazing at 
the moon — there’s always a shirtwaist somewhere 
about.” He paused with an air of finality and 
waited, but no reply came. Charley was regard- 
ing him nervously. “Are her eyes blue?” asked 
the priest softly. 

At the words Charley broke into voluble words. 
This man knew how to unlock hearts and tongues. 

“Yes, Father, blue as the heavens above. Her 
face — no artist would dare paint ; its beauty 
would stun him ; hair like the sunset ; a smile no 
man ever saw before, and a voice — like the 
chime of golden bells.” 

The priest smiled and nodded. “You’ve got 
it bad,” he decided. “There’s only one cure,” 

“What’s that, Father?” 

Father Kelly checked off the ingredients of his 
prescription slowly: “A plain gold ring, a few 


136 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


minutes with me, after the banns are cried from 
the altar, and a shower of rice and old shoes as 
you drive away to a flat in Harlem/' 

Charley drew a deep breath. Paradise was 
being painted for him by his new friend. Then 
he caught his breath sharply and rose to his feet. 
“But I don’t know where she is. Father !” 

“You don’t know? Well, well, that’s bad, my 
boy ; very, very bad !” 

Charley shook his head despondently; the old 
gloom was on his face. “She was in the moun- 
tains this Summer, and then one day she — she 
went.” 

The priest followed his gesture, which de- 
scribed the arc of an angel’s flight. “She did?’ 

“She did,” and Charley turned away. 

“Why didn’t you follow her, you young gos- 
soon?” Father Kelly rose excitedly to his feet. 

“I didn’t know where she came from or where 
she went.” 

“Ah, then, you must have cared a lot about 
her.” 

“So much that I forgot to ask her.” 

Father Kelly leaned on the desk and smiled 
sagely. “You have the worst case I ever saw. 
But,” and he came quite near the young man, 
“you can tell me her name?” He waited for a 
moment and then as no reply came, he demand- 
ed with some asperity: “Man alive, you know 
her name, don’t you?” 

Charley nodded, but backed closer to the broad 
French window. “Yes, but I don’t know that I 
ought to tell it — because — well — ah, let me 
think !” and he darted out into the shubbery. 


The Wisdom of Father Kelly 137 

Father Kelly lifted both hands in the air. 
'‘Let him think,” he repeated. Then he gazed 
after the retreating form of the young man and 
shook his head. “There he goes, as proud as a 
boy with his first pair of red topped boots.” 

The curtains at the arch rustled and Kathleen 
came into the room a little timidly. She made a 
charming picture as she stood there in relief 
against their warm red background. Slowly she 
came over and laid her hand on her uncle’s 
shoulder. “Shouldn’t we be starting for home. 
Uncle Brian ?” she asked, quietly. 

“Soon now, my colleen.” Father Kelly’s voice 
was very low and tender and the old Irish word 
was a caress from his lips. He loved this 
motherless girl. She had lived with him since 
her parents died and her education had been a 
source of joy and gratification to him. 

Kathleen was accustomed to Uncle Brian’s 
moods. She realized that his mind was very 
busy over some problem, and so she went to 
the other broad French window that fronted on 
the river and roadway and peered out. The 
weather was threatening. Beyond the Hudson 
the low tumuli of cloud bank had risen and cov- 
ered the western sky. A low growl now and 
then came from the depths of the inky masses. 
There was lightning, at the lower edge. 

“Shouldn’t we be starting for home?” she 
hazarded. 

“Soon now, dear, soon.” But he made no 
movement to go. 

She shook her head a little ruefully, for she 
knew how impossible it was to bring his mind 
back to earth once it was busy on a problem. 


138 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Something in her tone made him turn and look 
at her more attentively. He put out his hand and 
there was a note of anxiety in his voice. ‘‘Katy, 
dear, Fve been observing you of late. Is any- 
thing troubling you?’^ 

At his question she faltered a little and her 
eyes dropped. Suddenly she became vitally in- 
terested in a seam of the simple blue dress she 
wore. “What makes you ask that, Uncle Brian ?” 

“Yourself, dear. Sure, there was a time when 
your laugh echoed through the house all day, and 
you were so brimful of life, that it spoke in your 
eyes and sounded in your voice, until my old heart 
was lifted up with joy.’' He watched her for a 
moment and then added slowly : “ 'Tis not so 

now, dear!” 

The seam upon Kathleen’s dress was surely a 
cause of anxiety to her. Her eyes were fixed on 
it and her slender fingers were gathering it, plait- 
ing it into a new creation of her fancy. Father 
Kelly noticed that the fingers trembled a little as 
she answered plaintively: “Well, sure, times 
change, and — and we change with them.” 

He considered this a moment, thoughtfully. 
“Yes, there’s truth in what you say.” Her fin- 
gers tried a new arrangement of the seam and 
her eyes were still lowered. He came a little 
nearer. “Can’t you tell Uncle Brian what it is 
that troubles you ?” 

There was a world of tender solicitude in his 
voice. 

Kathleen looked up into his kindly face and 
with a sob threw her arms about his neck and 
buried her face on his broad shoulder. 


The Wisdom of Father Kelly 139' 


‘^Murder!” cried Father Kelly, startled out of 
his accustomed calm. “What’s this I’ve started ?” 
He held her close to him and listened for some 
word she might drop as a clue to this sudden 
burst of tears. But Kathleen only clung to him 
and murmured inarticulate nothings. 

“I didn’t mean,” she sobbed ; “that is, I did in 
a way; but — but — not that way. I — I went and 
oh — oh — it was dreadful.” 

“Yes, yes,” soothed Father Kelly, patting 
softly on her shoulder; “it was worse than that; 
it was awful.” 

Kathleen raised her tear stained face and gazed 
at her uncle. “Don’t you follow me. Uncle 
Brian ?” 

“Yes,” replied the priest, “I follow you like a 
hungry dog after a butcher’s wagon, ravenously 
but unsatisfactorily.” He looked at her again 
and shook his head. “Upon my word, Katy, I 
think you’re crazy !” 

“I’m not, Uncle Brian, but he may be.” 

Father Kelly turned to her quickly as she 
backed away from him toward the arch. “So!” 
he said ; “there’s a he in it, is there?” 

Kathleen nodded and blushed and stammered. 

“Tell me his name.” Father Kelly’s tone was 
judicial. 

Kathleen blushed more furiously and edged 
nearer the arch. “Why — I — I — I 1” 

“Kathleen O’Connor !” The interruption came 
directly back of Father Kelly. Charley Harrow 
had come in from the garden and stood looking, 
not at the priest but at his niece. Kathleen 
clasped both her hands and took a step forward. 

10 


140 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


"‘Charley Harrow Her tone was ecstatic ; over 
her face there crept an expression of relief. 

Father Kelly looked from one to the other 
and slowly a great light flooded his mind. “He 
couldn’t eat. She’s been pining,” he murmured, 
half unconsciously. “Both in the mountains 

this Summer — and — and ” He threw up his 

hands literally and going to the broad window 
became intensely occupied with the weather, but 
from the corner of his sharp eye he saw and 
reveled in the meeting of these two young people. 

Both had suddenly become self conscious. 
Kathleen’s attention was directed to the trouble- 
some seam in her dress. Charley Harrow started 
toward the lady of his dreams, the one he had 
pined and sighed for — then stopped suddenly. 
Somehow he was supremely aware that he was 
not looking his best. Wasn’t his collar rumpled? 
He felt it was — and his hair. What a sight he 
must be — just now when he wanted to look im- 
maculate. But she was there and perhaps she 
would understand. He tripped over the Persian 
rug before the desk on his way across the room. 
It seemed miles to him. Then she looked up at 
him with those wonderful blue eyes and he gasped 
at the look of complete surrender in them. 

“How do you do?” he questioned, decorously. 
The voice did not sound like his own at all. 

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Harrow !” As al- 
ways, the woman bore her part more bravely 
than the man. 

Then a long pause. 

Father Kelly put his handkerchief over his 
smiling mouth and peered out at the weather. 


The Wisdom of Father Kelly 


141 


Words had left Charley. He shifted nervously 
from one foot to the other. 

“How do you do?“ Kathleen did her feminine 
best to help him. 

“Quite well; Fm feeling fine now. Yes, and 
Fm feeling, better and better every minute.” 

She smiled up at him entrancingly and all the 
flood of words pent up in him burst forth. 

“I thought I never should see you again. I — I 
didn’t know you were going so soon.” 

“But didn’t I tell you, Mr. Harrow?” 

“Tell me? No!” 

“I meant to.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“I’ve worried.” 

“Heavens, so have I.” 

“I wrote four letters to the Qiff House I” 

“I didn’t receive them.” 

“No?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll kill that clerk.” 

“Did you try to find ” 

“I’ve sat up nights thinking ” 

“So have I.” 

“You have?” 

“Every night.” 

“Oh, oh ” 

“Yes; I feel that way and now — now ” 

The curtains on the arch closed on them. Their 
voices died away and the library door shut with 
a bang. Evidently no third person was wanted 
there. 

Father Kelly turned in the window embrasure 
and clung to the curtains weakly. The rapid in- 


143 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


terchange of questions, answers, interjections had 
sounded like meaningless jargon to his ears. He 
looked all about the room. 

•‘Help I” he said, and dropped into a broad arm 
chair. 


The Man in the Shrubbery 




CHAPTER XII 
The Man in the Shrubbery 
ERA ran down the stairway and inter- 



cepted Bruce as he came through the cur- 


tains. She had been thinking deeply and 
had reached the conclusion to wait until morning, 
or until her guests had gone, before questioning 
her sister again. Bruce took her hand, smiling, 
and then something in Father Kelly’s manner 
deflected the current of his thoughts, and he came 
over to the desk, looking about the room curi- 


ously. 


“Did you see Charley, Father ?” he inquired. 

Vera smiled and laid her hand on the priest’s 
arm. She had forgotten her suggestion that their 
friend should try to probe that young man’s 
gloomy manner. 

Father Kelly looked up and nodded grimly. 
“I did so, and Charley saw me.” Then he added, 
mysteriously: “Yes, and that’s not all Charley 
saw, either !” 

Vera frowned a question at Bruce over the 
priest’s unconscious head. 

“What do you mean?” asked Bruce. 

Charley came through the curtained arch, his 
face flushed and smiling, his eyes dancing. 

“I say, Bruce, old man,” he called, cheerily, 
with a nod to include Vera, “you won’t mind if 
I order up a little bite from the kitchen — fact is. 
I’m starving; eh, what?” 


144 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Bruce surveyed him with a stare of amaze- 
ment. “No, Charley, g:o as far as you like.” 

“Thanks; knew you wouldn’t object. Great 
night tonight, isn’t it, eh?” He tossed his hand- 
kerchief in the air, caught it dexterously, waved 
it at them joyously ; then hummed a bar of rag- 
time melody descriptive of the heated atmos- 
phere imminent in a certain nameless town and 
fairly ran through the curtained arch. 

Bruce looked after him with a wondering 
stare, and then at Vera. She drew her eyebrows 
into a straight line of extreme perplexity and 
shook her head. 

“Wonderful!” commented Bruce. 

“Marvelous!” echoed Father Kelly. 

“You’ve done a very wonderful thing with 
that boy,” went on Bruce. 

“Yes,” nodded the priest, “But it wasn’t I 
who did it.” 

Vera asked the question for both Bruce and 
herself: “Then what has made such a change 
in him?” 

Father Kelly smiled and bestowed on them a 
grave, clerical wink. “Charley has found the rib 
he lost.” 

Vera and Bruce exchanged a puzzled look be- 
fore he inquired : “What are you talking about. 
Father ?” 

The priest stroked his chin thoughtfully and 
answered the question with another : “You said 
this place was Eden, didn’t you ?” 

“Yes, but ” 

“Well, my dear young friends, Adam lost a rib 
in his Garden of Eden and found it turned into 


The Man in the Shrubbery 145 

Eve. Charley found his lost rib, tonight, in this 
room, and, faith, ‘it has hair like the sunset; a 
smile no man ever saw before, and a voice like 
golden bells.’ ” He paused and surveyed them, 
smiling. 

Bruce shook his head in a bewildered way, but 
Vera’s keener mind caught a hint of the hidden 
meaning. 

“Father Kelly,” she cried, delightedly, “do 
you mean ” 

The priest nodded. “My niece, Kathleen.” 

“Hello!” cried Bruce, as it dawned on him. 
“Those two ” 

From the library came the laughing tones of 
Kathleen as a servant opened the door with a 
supply of food for Charley. 

“Mr. Harrow, are you going to eat all those 
sandwiches ?” 

“Yes,” and the young man’s voice was almost 
boisterous. “I’m awfully hungry!” 

Father Kelly listened with hand raised. He 
turned to Bruce and Vera as the closing of the 
library door shut out whatever followed. He 
nodded wisely. “See now. His appetite came 
back almost as soon as he saw Kathleen, and 
he’s eating his head off in there.” 

“I’m glad,” said Bruce heartily, and Vera 
echoed the sentiment. 

“So am I,” replied Father Kelly, gripping 
Bruce’s hand warmly. “He’s a fine lad, or I’ve 
lost my eyesight; and Kathleen, well, she’s an 
Irish girl, and you know what they sing in the 
old country.” He hummed the words of an old 
song: 


146 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

''Kathleen’s eyes are Irish, 

Kathleen’s eyes are blue; 

Kathleen’s eyes are Irish eyes 
Irish eyes are True.” 

He looked at them for a moment, and then 
added: “And that’s what Charley is thinking in 
there now.” 

Like an echo to his song came the bars of a 
music hall melody from the library, the voices of 
Kathleen and Charley blending in the refrain. 

The three listened, Father Kelly beating time 
with one hand. A horrible discord brought an 
exclamation from Vera. Charley had failed to 
reach the exact note of the tenor part. 

Father Kelly shook his head and smiled as he 
went toward the library door. “We must forgive 
them,” he said. “Sure, ’tis love that drives them 
off the key.” He paused and listened as the 
clock on the mantel chimed the half hour. “Half 
after ten ; we must be going.” 

But Vera interposed swiftly: “No, you and 
Kathleen are to remain the night with us.” 

“Yes,” said Bruce. “We must have a talk 
about the young people tomorrow. Father.” 

As if to reinforce their argument, there was 
a low mutter of thunder from outside. 

Vera went to the . window and looked out. 
“You must stay,” she urged. “It’s going to 
storm.” 

“Well,” replied the priest, smiling, “I’ll accept 
your hospitality most thankfully.” He drew aside 
the curtains of the arch and looked back at them. 


The Man in the Shrubbery 147 

laughing. “Who knows, we may find another of 
Charley’s ribs in the morning?” 

Vera waved her hand and smiled at him as he 
went, but Bruce’s next words caused a little 
cloud of anxiety to cover her face. She came 
towards him as he inquired : “How did you find 
your sister, dear?” 

“Alice has changed, Bruce; she’s worn, looks 
pale — nervous ” 

Bruce felt the quiver in her voice and drew her 
to him very gently. “Won’t she come down?” 
he asked, and laid his hand upon the door as 
though he meant to go up to her. 

A figure passed slowly by the open French 
window and Bruce saw her. “Alice!” he started 
to call, but Vera interposed quickly: 

“Yes, it’s Alice, but she doesn’t want to meet 
anyone. She’s gone for a walk in the grounds. 
Oh, Bruce, she looks so worn and nervous. I’m — 
I’m worried about her.” 

Her husband patted her on the shoulder re- 
assuringly. “Now, now,” he comforted. “Alice 
is only tired after her long journey. A good 
night’s rest is all she needs. Come, we’ll go and 
meet Charley and Kathleen. Just imagine, that 
was all that ailed the beggar — a girl. Why, 
hello, Ken,” he broke oflf suddenly, as their friend 
came through the curtains. “Began to think you 
had found us slow and retired.” 

Kenward laughed. “No; been having an ex- 
citing time congratulating Charley.” 

“Exactly what I’m on my way to do,” and Vera 
nodded to them as she went towards the library. 
j“Came for another cigar, Bruce,” said Ken- 


148 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

ward. “Notice my burglarious instinct,” and he 
opened the escritoire in the corner and took one 
from the box.” I have some, but your brand 
appeals to me.” He clipped the end deliberately 
and looked about him for a light. “Got over 
that foolish feeling you had about an unknown 
enemy ?” 

The smile left his friend’s face. He shook his 
head grimly. “Far from it, Ken. He’s there all 
right, hiding, behind his brokers.” 

“Must be a crafty man.” 

“Yes, all that — but he’s a coward, for he 
doesn’t fight in the open.” 

“If you’re sure of what you say,” and Ken- 
ward’s voice was very earnest, “You ought to be 
very careful.” 

Bruce nodded. “He won’t catch me napping 
again,” he said. “I tell no one my plans for the 
market now ; no one save Vera.” 

He shrugged his shoulders as though dismis- 
sing business for the moment, and passed through 
the curtains at the archway. As he opened the 
door of the library, Vera was leaning over the 
arm of Father Kelly’s chair and smiling at the 
counsel he was imparting to Charley and Kath- 
leen, who sat at the large table opposite them. 

“ ’Tis the vanity of us all,” said the priest, “to 
believe that we know life. ‘When the hair falls 
out,’ said some wise old fellow, ‘wisdom flows 
in’ ; but I tell you ’tis not that way at all. As we 
grow older, we grow more foolish ; we think we 
know, and then some gossoon” — he shook his 
finger at young Harrow menacingly — “comes 
along and whirroo — away goes years of theory.” 


149 


The Man in the Shrubbery 

Bruce joined the laughing group about the 
table and put his hand on Vera’s arm. 

“Was it the gossoon in this case that defied 
theory, Father, or” — he looked wickedly down at 
Kathleen — “was it the colleen?” 

“You remind me,” returned the priest, “that 
no investigator should ever forget that rule of 
the wise Frenchman, who said: 'Toujours serchez 
la femme.’ ” 

Vera pinched his ear. “That’s a libel on my 
sex. Father Kelly,” she said. 

“Ah,” retorted the priest, “your action is sym- 
bolic of your sex, ma’amj you buzz and then nip 
mankind.” 

“Oh, ho !” and Vera retreated from him in pre- 
tended horror. “Did you hear that? Kathleen, 
shall we use violence?” She grasped her fan like 
a deadly weapon and seemed looking for the most 
vulnerable point to attack. 

Kather Kelly put up his hands in a gesture of 
entreaty, for Kathleen was advancing on him 
with her eyes full of mischief. “Two against one 
feeble old man; is that the feminine idea of fair 
play? See now,” he implored, “I qualify it — 
some of your sex, I meant. Present company al- 
ways suspected — that is — I mean — excepted.” 

Vera laughed and gave him her hand. “For- 
given,” she said. 

“Well, anyway,” suggested Father Kelly, cov- 
ertly. “It was Bruce that started the ruction, 
so if anyone is to be slain, ladies, choose him.” 

“Where’s Kenward?” asked Vera, suddenly. 

Bruce looked about him. “Thought he came in 


150 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

with me. Kenward I'’ he called, and went toward 
his study. 

He found Kenward seated at his desk, the 
telephone receiver at his ear. 

“Hello, what's up, old man?" queried Bruce. 
“Anything broke ?" 

His friend looked up quickly, and it struck 
Bruce that he seemed a trifle worried. 

“Don’t know ; New York just called me, 

and ’’ He broke off sharply and spoke 

through the ’phone: “Hello, that you, Benson? 
Yes, this is Wright — yes, Kenward Wright. Oh, 
all right. I’ll be in tonight about that matter. 

When? Why ’’ He put his hand over the 

transmitter and looked up quickly. “When’s the 
next train into town, Bruce?’’ 

Bruce looked at his watch and answered, with 
the readiness of the commuter whose peace in life 
depends upon his knowledge of train schedules 
and the number of feet he can cover per second. 
“It’s eleven ten. There’s a train in at eleven fifty- 
five, one at twelve twenty, another at twelve 
fifty." 

Kenward nodded his thanks and spoke over 
the wire. “I’ll be in on the eleven fifty-five from 
here." 

He hung up the receiver with more than ordi- 
nary care. One could see his mind was busy with 
some problem. 

“What is it?" asked Vera, who came from the 
library. Something in the air told her of the un- 
usual. 

“Ken’s got to go into town," replied Bruce. 
He had pressed a button on the wall and turned 
to Lee, who entered in answer to the summons. 


151 


The Man in the Shrubbery 

“That’s too bad,” complained Vera, and this 
was echoed by Father Kelly, who had followed 
her to the study. 

“Sorry,” replied Kenward, buttoning up his 
coat, “but IVe simply got to go.” 

“Mr. Kenward’s hat ” began Bruce, but 

Lee had anticipated him and came forward with 
the article ; also a mackintosh. 

“Guess you’ll need this, Mr. Wright,” he said. 

Kenward nodded as he put it on. 

“My car’s in the repair shop,” regretted Bruce. 
“Sorry; hitch up a horse for you.” 

But his friend shook his head. “No, I can 
make it easy ; like the walk. Good night to you 
all. I’ll be back in a day or so.” And he went 
out quickly through the French window. 

The storm was nearer now. Buffets of the gale 
struck the house like blows from some giant’s 
hand. The lightning was vivid ; each flash lit up 
the grounds and was apparent, even in the bright- 
ly illumined study. 

Father Kelly drew back the curtains and 
looked after Kenward thoughtfully. “I hope the 
rain holds off until he reaches the station,” he 
said. 

Kenward’s abrupt departure seemed to have 
thrown a little check upon their good spirits. No 
one spoke for a moment. Over in the comer 
near the arch Kathleen and Charley whispered 
together. Vera moved about the study restlessly ; 
she found it impossible to be still. Bruce looked 
up from the book he had opened and watched 
her gravely. She saw his eyes on her and col- 
ored under their steady gaze. 


162 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

*‘The storm makes me nervous,” she said. 
'‘Don’t you all think it time to retire ?” 

A little chorus of assent followed her sugges- 
tion. Lee began to close the windows and to 
draw the curtains; Lesura opened the door that 
led to the stairs. 

“If you please, Mrs. Wilton,” Kathleen came 
over to her hostess slowly. She seemed about to 
say something, then hesitated and paused. 

Vera’s hand went out to her with ready sym- 
pathy. “What is it, dear ?” she asked. 

Father Kelly came toward Vera smiling; he 
understood what Kathleen desired. “If you 
please, Vera,” he said quietly, “we have a 
little custom in our home that Kathleen is used 
to, one she misses tonight.” 

“What is it, Father?” 

“When the day is over and we are going to 
our rest, I always call my little household to- 
gether for a good night blessing/’ 

Vera put her hand on his arm and smiled. 
“Won’t you do that now. Father?” 

“If the master of the house doesn’t object.” 

“Not at all,” said Bruce heartily ; then he quali- 
fied his assent — “but, I don’t believe ” 

The priest turned to him quickly and raised 
his hand. “Bruce, lad, don’t say it ! Who knows 
what the night holds for any of us ?” He closed 
his eyes reverently and the music of his voice filled 
the room : “May God’s blessing rest on this house 
and all of us tonight — forgive if any of us have 
strayed — and grant that the night may bring us 
new strength to love and serve Thee always. 
Amen.” 



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The Man in the Shrubbery 153 

Vera laid her hand upon his. ‘T thank you, 
Father,” she said. 

“Upon my word, Father, I wish I did believe !” 
and Bruce’s voice told of his earnestness. 

The priest turned and caught his friend’s hand. 
Vera gave a little cry and started forward. It 
was what she had hoped for, the one great desire 
of her life that her husband’s doubts might dis- 
appear, that he might have faith. 

“Lad,” said Father Kelly, and there was a 
quiver of longing in his tone; “you’ve made a 
beginning, ’tis the desire must come first, the rest 
is in His hands.” His lips moved silently for a 
moment, then he smiled and looked about him. 
“Will some one show an old man where he is 
to lay his head?” 

Lee will do that. Father Kelly,” said Bruce, 
and while Vera showed Kathleen to her room 
with Lesura up the stairs, the priest passed 
through the arch to the other wing with Charley 
and Lee. At the door of the library Father 
Kelly paused. “I think I’ll browse among the 
books for an hour maybe,” he said. “My room, 
ah, at the end of the hall, ye say? Well, just 
turn the light on there and leave the door open. 
Good night!” 

Bruce alone in the study gave a last look about, 
then turned the switch, near the stairway door 
that threw off the lights. As he did so, a vivid 
flash of lightning lighted the room. Bruce gave 
a quick start and went to the window. He looked 
out until another flash illuminated the grounds. 
Then he shook his head impatiently and laughed 
as he went up the stairs. 


154 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


*‘I’m getting nervous/' he said smiling. '‘J^st 
for a moment I thought I saw someone at that 
window.” 

He passed into his room and the door closed 
softly on him. Then silence held the entire house. 

Outside the rain had come and fell in great 
sheets. The wind had fallen and now crooned 
about the corners and the eves. From above 
the thunder still rolled, but more distant, the light- 
ning was less vivid. 

In the library Father Kelly dozed over an old 
black letter volume he had found. 

Upstairs, in the room adjoining Vera’s, her sis- 
ter, Alice, lay upon the bed fully dressed, her 
eyes were closed, one hand was thrown over her 
head. She seemed asleep, but underneath the 
white spread thrown over her she was fully 
dressed. 

She was not asleep. Her eyes were closed, 
but she was listening, waiting. 

And outside the ‘window of the study, in the 
shelter of the shrubbery, there crouched — a man. 


In the Silent House 


155 


CHAPTER XIII 
In the Silent House 

S LEEP did not come to Vera readily. The 
restlessness she had felt earlier in the eve- 
ning returned with greater force, once she 
laid her head upon the pillow. 

Over and over she tried to put all thought 
away, to make her mind a blank, but something 
seemed to drag, her back to consciousness. Bruce 
had told her before retiring the exact details of 
the coup he expected to execute on the Exchange 
next day. It was a bold one, and she smiled as 
she thought how typical it was of his direct meth- 
ods. She asked herself if this was not the cause 
of her wakefulness, and smiling up into the dark- 
ness denied it. No, her confidence in her hus- 
band's strength and mental power was boundless. 

She put her hand gently on his, and felt with 
a thrill that even in deep slumber his fingers 
closed on hers. Perfect love, perfect faith, per- 
fect understanding, she thought to herself and a 
great wave of thankfulness came over her. Surely 
God in His own good time would bring a man 
like Bruce to faith in Him. She closed her eyes 
and a deep peace came over her. Little by lit- 
tle her restlessness left her, the tired nerves re- 
laxed, sleep, the most blessed gift to mankind, 
was stealing close to her, whispering gently in 
her ear that all was well. 

Then suddenly something invisible seemed to 
11 


156 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


touch her. She put out her hand blindly in the 
darkness, almost as though she expected it to en- 
counter a tangible, physical shape. Her eyes were 
wide open now and staring, yet she heard noth- 
ing, saw nothing. There was only the moaning 
of the wind outside and the ghostly creak of a 
loose shutter. And yet she felt an impulse, an 
urge, a feeling she could not explain. Some- 
thing invisible seemed impelling her to rise — 

to she did not know what. Fight against 

it as she would, the feeling persisted. It could 
not be Alice. She had looked in upon her sis- 
ter before retiring and found her, as she thought, 
sleeping peacefully. 

Then what was this sensation that she felt in 
every nerve? 

In desperation she rose quietly, threw a loose 
silk kimono over her and made her way to Aliceas 
room. She tried the door and found it open; 
it was not even latched. Startled at this, she 
entered, and felt before she switched on the light, 
that Alice was not there. 

The room was in disorder. Her sister’s trav- 
eling bag was wide open, its contents scattered 
all about the room. With a vague gesture of 
helplessness, she put her hand to her head and 
tried to think what this could mean. And then 
a low sound caught her ear, something like a 
moan. Quickly she turned off the light and 
groped her way in the darkness to the head of 
the stairs. Once she paused and again she heard 
the same sound, clearer now. Yes, it was a 
moan, low and faint, but unmistakable. 

The heavily carpeted stairs gave no sound as 


In the Silent House 157 

she descended them lightly. At their foot she 
paused. Then she opened the door and stepped 
into the study, and in that instant it came to her 
in a blinding flash of intuition, that her sister 
was there, but not alone. 

Someone was with Alice ! 

Who? 

She leaned against the door and thought swift- 
ly. The room was an inky pool of darkness, but 
she caught the faint, elusive trace of something, 
near the further window. She paused a moment, 
and then it came to her that Alice had worn a 
gray dress. Quickly she started forward and 
spoke aloud. 

'There is someone in this room,” she said; 

“someone, Alice ” In her excitement her 

hand crashed down upon the keys of the piano. 
They jangled, a horrible discord. 

But Alice was there. 

At the sound, she turned wildly toward the 
window on the other side of the room. 

Vera saw that both windows were open, as she 
caught her sister by both hands.. 

Something glided out of the other window into 
the storm, a wraith, a shadow ; in her excitement 
she could not be sure, for Alice tore her hands 
free and ran out through the window that faced 
the river. 

“Alice,” she cried with a sob, and would have 
followed her, but at that moment she heard her 
husband’s voice. 

“Vera,” he called, and then again, “Vera !” 

She turned with a cry and plunged headlong 
into someone who caught both her hands firmly. 


168 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

''Vera/* said a low, stern voice. "What are 
you doing here?" 

It was Father Kelly. 

She heard her husband again. He was de- 
scending the stairs. In his voice there was a 
note of suspicion. 

"Vera,** he said again. 

She gave a cry and shrunk closer to Father 
Kelly. Her sister, xA.lice, here, under her roof, 
and someone who had come there to meet her. 
The shame of it shook her with a passion of 
sobs. 

"Father,** she moaned, "I can’t tell you — or — 
or Bruce, only help me, help me. I — I ** 

Bruce dashed the door; at the foot of the 
stairs, wide open and entered the room. He had 
thrown a loose robe about him. 

"What’s that?’’ he demanded. "Who’s there? 
I’ll know— I’ll ** 

His hand found the switch, and with one turn 
the room was flooded with light. Then he start- 
ed back in astonishment, for Father Kelly stood 
facing him quietly. Vera crouched behind the 
heavy curtains, where Father Kelly had placed 
her, listened for his next word. 

"Father Kelly,** said Bruce, "you here — alone f* 

The priest took a step toward him and paused. 
"Yes, Bruce, dear lad,** he replied calmly; "as 
you see, alone!" 


A Question of Erin 


159 


CHAPTER XIV 


A Question of Erin 


ND morning dawned as though even Na- 



ture understood how close had Tragedy 


^ come to the Eden household. A leaden 
sky canopied an atmosphere of fog and chilly 
winds. The sodden earth tried to free itself 
from the sheets of rain that had fallen, but the 
Sun hid its face and without the help of its 
beams the ground was powerless. Every gutter 
and runway flowed a river, the trees now and 
then shook themselves, as the dank wind whistled 
through their branches, and deluged the unhappy 
passer-by. The cozy house, from the outside, 
looked deserted and forbidding. Soaked awn- 
ings dripped dismally upon the flooded verandas. 
The loggia and arbor, wind swept and rain 
soaked, presented the appearance of a stranded 
wreck. Upon the little hill at their back the 
thicket of birch saplings was a tangled laby- 
rinthe of broken branches and twisted tree 
trunks. 

With the first streaks of dawn there came 
workmen up the hill from the station. They 
had arrived on the early morning train in obedi- 
ence to Vera’s orders. Lee admitted them at the 
servants’ entrance and showed them the way to 
Bruce’s study. Then he left them there, as she 
had asked him to do. 

Quietly they worked for quite two hours, and 


160 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

before the house was stirring, they went as si- 
lently as they had come. Only the younger of 
the three, when they stopped in the kitchen to 
enjoy a cup of coffee before taking the train for 
the city, was talkative. He was a fine stalwart 
workman, and as he stood by the table he looked 
about him curiously and said: 

“That’s a mighty strange present to give a 
man,” and he nodded toward the study where 
they had been working. Then he drank his cof- 
fee reflectively and added, “But your Mrs. Wil- 
ton is all right, you hear me?” 

The other men with him nodded, and so they 
went down the hill to their train. 

Lee had received written directions from Vera. 
They were on a tiny card, and read : 

“Lee: 

“Please see the workmen are shown to Mr. 
Wilton’s study and that they are undisturbed. I 
don’t want anyone to see my present to Mr. 
Wilton.” 

That was Vera’s gracious way of dealing, with 
her household. No orders, no commands, just 
a simple request on a card in her own delicate 
handwriting. 

Lee had carefully followed the request. Now 
he went to the study just to see that everything 
was in order. The workmen were worthy to be 
called craftsmen, for they had left scarcely a trace 
of their presence. Lee glanced about the room 
sharply and noted that the curtains on the west 
window were closely drawn. Across them was 
a broad band of purple ribbon. 

“It’s back of that, this present for Mr. Wil- 


A Question of Erin 


161 


ton/’ he said, and fell to musing over what it 
could be. Then his quick eyes noted a few tiny 
shavings near the curtain’s edge, others down 
the center of the room. He shook his head and 
went for the carpet sweeper. 

Father Kelly came in through the other win- 
dow as Lee rolled the sweeper energetically. He 
did not seem to see the boy and fell to pacing 
the room slowly. 

“Morning, Father Kelly,” said Lee. 

“Eh, what’s that!” 

Lee paused in his work and then realized that 
a change had taken place in his friend, since he 
bade him good night only a few hours ago. His 
face was drawn and rather pale, his eyes looked 
heavy ; there was about him some indefinable air 
of worry, perplexity, uncertainty. The boy stared 
at first and an affectionate query of solicitude 
came to his lips. He shut them in a close, tight 
line, however, and shook his head. 

‘T just said good morning,” he replied. 

“Yes, lad, yes!” The priest took off his hat 
with a preoccupied air and handed it rather ab- 
sently to his young friend. Lee took it instantly 
and placed it on the rack just beyond the broad 
arched opening to the hallway. He noticed the 
Father’s fingers were a little unsteady. 

“Yes, of course,” said the priest. “Good morn- 
ing, my boy. Busy with your duties, I see.” 

Lee seized the sweeper again and trundled it 
toward the hall closet where it belonged. “Sure, 
I’m busy; but it isn’t my duty to do this. No; 
it’s Lesura Watkins’ job. Have you met up with 
Lesura, Father? She’ll hand you an awful 


162 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


laugh. She’s the champion warranted-not-to- 
laugh girl from Bellows Falls, Vermont. Get 
that, Father?” 

“Yes, Lee, my boy, yes.” And he dropped 
into an armchair by the table and thought deeply. 
Why had Vera not come to him. At least she 
owed him an explanation of last night. Blindly, 
without question, he had saved her, averted what 
might have been a tragedy, perhaps, and yet she 
had given no sign. Bruce had gone to the serv- 
ant’s quarters, after their abrupt meeting on that 
very spot the night before, and his friend had 
not seen him again. He, himself, had waited in 
the library perplexed and worried. Vera, he pre- 
sumed, had taken the opportunity to steal up- 
stairs to her room. Slowly he shook his head 
as he pondered. No, it was beyond him — he 
could not see the end — he 

“Listen, Father,” Lee broke into his medita- 
tions. “What’s up ?” 

The priest raised his head quickly. While he 
felt that at all hazards the least suspicion of trou- 
ble in this household must be kept from the serv- 
ants, still he could not bear the suspense that 
was hanging over him. 

“What are you talking about, lad ?” He asked 
the question as lightly as he could, but was con- 
scious of a tremor of nervousness in his voice. 

Lee nodded his head slowly. “I mean you 
and the rest in this house.” 

Father Kelly shook his broad shoulders impa- 
tiently. He was used to a human crisis. In his 
long term of service, as guardian of the souls of 
many thousands, there was hardly a problem of 


A Question of Erin 


163 


Life he had not been called upon to face. He was 
not afraid — the tension of his nerves was caused 
by the oppressive silence, by the fact that he had 
nothing to proceed upon, no definite line of ac- 
tion. 

“Where's Mr. Wilton?" he asked. 

“Gone for a walk. Isn’t that a hit. Father? 
Gone for a walk on a day like this." He came 
a step nearer the Father and lowered his voice. 
“Didn’t have any breakfast. No; just a big 
drink of whiskey and out." His expressive ges- 
ture completed the picture of Bruce’s hopeless 
departure from his home. 

The sensitive lips of the priest quivered, and 
he put his hand over his eyes for a moment. 
Familiarity with human suffering had not robbed 
Father Kelly of one atom of that divine sympa- 
thy and pity, which are the bedrock foundations 
of his noble order. 

And this was Bruce, his own dear lad, whose 
mind he had trained, whose capacity for suffer- 
ing he knew. Then he gripped himself sharply. 
God would show him the way. He waited a mo- 
ment, until he felt the calm that comes when the 
soul leans upon Divinity for guidance. 

“And Miss Vera?" he inquired huskily. 

“Up ia her room — crying.” Lee turned away 
and surreptitiously drew his sleeve across his 
eyes. 

The priest came to his feet on the instant and 
took a step toward the stairway. But in the very 
act he paused. Vera had not come to him. What 
right had he to force her confidence. He shook 
his head sadly as he said aloud : 


164 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


“No, I must think this out — I He turned 

and met Lee’s intent gaze fixed on him. With 
the impulse of the moment he spoke sharply: 
“Don’t stand staring at me like that. How do 
you know Miss Vera is in her room crying?” 

The boy’s face flusneJ and he backed away 
from his friend. “Gee, Father,” he stammered; 
“what are you jumping hurdles about?” 

The startled look in his eyes brought back the 
priest’s control on the instant. He smiled a lit- 
tle wanly and held out his hand as he said : 

“I beg your pardon, my lad ; I had no right 
to speak to you like that. Will you forgive me ?” 

Lee took the proffered hand and shook it 
warmly. “It’s all right, Father!” 

“And how do you know Miss Vera ” 

“Went up to knock on her door, you know. I 
thought maybe she was sick or something, and 
I — I — heard her sobbing. Then I didn’t knock, 
I — I — just came away.” 

“Poor girl,” murmured Father Kelly softly; 
“and Mr. Wilton gone out walking?” 

“Yes, and an awful face on him.” Lee moved 
nearer his friend and dropped his voice. “He 
was in the library when I came downstairs, a 
decanter of brandy on the table.” 

“What evil influence is in this house ?” It was 
almost with a cry of agony that the priest uttered 
the words. They were wrung from him. He 
felt himself in the midst of suffering, and the 
wav to comfort, to heal, was not plain to his 
mind. 

Lee stared at him. His astonishment took the 
form of a question: “Is there an evil influence 
here?” 


A Question of Erin 


165 


Father Kelly nodded. His head was sunk on 
his chest, and every faculty of his wonderful 
mind was bent upon the problem he felt was be- 
fore him. “Yes, lad, yes there is.” His voice 
was low and musical, but in the deep tones one 
could read tenacity, firmness, the fibre of one 
who would never give up. 

“I felt it last night,” he went on, softly. “I 
almost had my hand on it, and then it was gone.” 
He drew a deep breath and his eyes widened. 
“Just as it has now.” There was a quiver of 
intense longing as he added : “And Bruce, poor 
lad, alone in that room all night with black 
doubts gnawing at his heart.” 

They were both silent for a moment ; then the 
priest, in his quick pacing of the study came to 
the drawn curtains of the window. He paused 
and looked a query at his friend. 

Lee shook his head. “I don’t know exactly 
what it’s for,” he said. “Only don’t touch the 
curtains. Miss Vera’s present to Mr., Wilton is 
there behind them.” 

“Her present to Mr. Wilton, Lee ?” 

“Sure ! Today’s the anniversary of their mar- 
riage.” 

“So it is. I had forgotten. May the day end 
better than it has begun.” 

Lee shook his head despondently. “What’s 
the matter, anyhow ? Why, everybody was happy 
enough yesterday.” 

“I know that, my boy.” Father Kelly leaned 
upon the broad table, and spoke earnestly. “I 
said to myself, as I sat there in the library. Says 
I : Tf ever there was a household of peace, good 


166 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


will and happiness, *tis here,’ and then my eye 
fell upon the ancient book I held, and I read 
these words: ‘The evil thoughts of one mind, 
one human brain, can kill the happiness of an en- 
tire household ; for thoughts are things.' ” 

His voice died away in a whisper. The air in 
the room seemed to grow heavier, as though it 
held a portent of something impending. 

Lee drew his breath sharply. “Gee! Father 
Kelly. You make me feel as though there was 
someone behind me with a brick.” 

Through the archway came Lesura, carrying 
with her an atmosphere of utter calm. 

“Say!” Her voice came from directly be- 
hind Lee, and he turned with a sharp exclama- 
tion. 

He saw who had startled him, and a frown 
of disgust, at his own lack of nervous repose, 
showed upon his face. 

“Listen, Miss Watkins; if you want to see 
Bellows Falls again alive, don’t ever do that 
to me again !” 

Lesura looked at him with unwinking serenity. 
Nothing this strange mortal could do would ever 
surprise her now. “Do what, Mr. Martin?” 

“Don’t ever sneak up behind me and murmur 
in my left ear. I thought for a minute I was 
sent for.” 

The girl looked him over carefully. She had 
learned the futility of asking an explanation of 
his strange words to her, so she changed the sub- 
ject at a feminine tangent. 

“Do you think Miss Vera knows that her sis- 
ter has gone?” 


167 


A Question of Erin 

Ignorant of the fact that Alice had been in the 
house, for Lesura always obeyed instructions to 
the letter, Lee could only ask stupidly: 

‘‘Has she?” 

Lesura nodded. Then she turned to Father 
Kelly, who asked in an astonished tone: 

“Miss Vera’s sister; was she here?” 

The girl nodded, a little embarrassed. She 
was conscious of the priest’s high office and felt 
that she should reply, but how to address him 
was an intricate problem. She solved it by a 
deep courtesy and a compromise. 

“Yes, Mr.— Mr. Reverend!” 

With a withering look, Lee started to correct 
her, but Father Kelly motioned him away and 
called Lesura to him. 

“Where did Miss Vera’s sister go, my girl?” 
he asked. 

“I don’t know, sir. Mr. — Mr. ” She was 

searching vainly for a proper form of address 
when the priest interrupted her. 

“More mysteries,” he said. Then, as it had 
always been his custom when there seemed no 
answer to a question, he eased his mind of the 
burden. With a gesture of release he threw all 
worry away from him. He was done with it, 
this ceaseless pulling at his brain centers. He 
wanted rest — to change the subject. 

“For the love of Heaven,” he cried, “don’t 
you two stand there staring! Can’t you smile; 
can’t you laugh?” 

His question touched a sore spot in Lee’s 
mind. To be linked with Lesura in his apprecia- 
tion of humor ! This was too much. He pointed 
to her now and shook his head, gloomily. 


168 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


"‘She can’t laugh, Father?” 

“I can, when there’s anything funny to laugh 
at.” She resented this obvious slur. 

Father Kelly wagged his head shrewdly. 
“Well, then, here’s our chance to try, for Skee- 
ter’s the boy who can make us laugh.” Half 
unconsciously he gave him his old nickname. 
“Come now, lad, tell us a joke that’ll put us all 
in good humor.” 

He turned to Lee with a broad smile of antici- 
pation, but the boy shook his head soberly. 

“I can’t, Father.” 

“And why not, my boy?” 

“Because I’ve lost a friend.” 

“That’s sad news, my boy.” 

“You bet it is, Father Kelly. Poor Sam.” He 
heaved a deep sigh. “Poor old Sam. You were 
my pal, but now you’re gone — canned.” 

His emotion was so nicely simulated that Fa- 
ther Kelly fell into the trap and asked the fatal 
question. 

“Sam who?” 

Lee turned upon him with a smile. “Why, 
Sam-on — salmon.” 

There was a moment’s pause, then the priest 
fairly shouted with laughter. 

“That’s fine, Skeeter,” he gasped, when he 
could recover his breath. “Fine, and, sure, I 
brought it on myself. They canned my friend 
Sam. Sam who? Why, Sam-on.” He went ofiF 
into a gale of laughter and dropped weakly into 
a chair by the table and shook with merriment. 
Then he grasped Lee’s hand and shook it ener- 
getically. 


A Question of Erin 


169 


thank you, dear boy; there’s no medicine 
like a good laugh.” ■ 

But Lee gently pulled him around and pointed 
to Lesura. “There’s one patient it doesn’t work 
on, Father.” 

The girl stood looking at them with abso- 
lutely no expression on her face, except, perhaps, 
one of mild astonishment. 

Father Kelly rose from his chair and went 
closer to her. “Why don’t you laugh, my girl?” 

Lesura shook her head and shifted her weight 
from one foot to the other, uneasily. “Because 
I don’t see anything funny in that.” She paused 
and seemed to be digesting, the general idea of 
the joke. Then she looked up and declared her 
opinion: “I think it’s sad.” 

“Yes, but look here. You see, he said ” 

“If my friend Sam was put in a can,” she 
broke in, “I couldn’t laugh. It’s awful cruel to 
put anyone in a tin can. I think that’s murder !” 

“Hold on; you don’t understand!” cried Fa- 
ther Kelly. But Lesura made him a queer little 
courtesy, which conveyed the idea that she 
stooped to pick up something from the floor, 
but changed her mind, and went out through 
the arch. Father Kelly turned to Lee, who 
pawed at the air weakly for support, and 
then leaned on the table. They stood gazing at 
each other for a long moment, and then the priest 
inquired : 

“What on earth ails the girl?” 

Lee shook his head, somberly. “Her face is 
frozen and you can’t break the ice; and I know, 
Father, because I’ve tried. Why, Mr. Wilton 
offered me a prize if I’d make her laugh.” 


ITO Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Mr. Wilton — ^there it was again. The old, 
haunting feeling of disaster came back to Father 
Kelly ; the pang at his heart when he thought of 
the man out under this cold, pitiless, leaden sky, 
fighting the twin devils of, doubt and jealousy. 

But he put the feeling resolutely away. No, 
no, no; he would not think of that now. He 
would waitj wait, until the man or the woman 
was ready to come to him — to tell him something 
tangible. Nothing could be done until this fog of 
mystery was cleared away. 

“Never mind,'’ he cried. “Only don’t you get 
gloomy, too. Come away with care ; away with 
it. I want to see merry faces about me.” 

A sudden inspiration came to him. He struck 
his hands together excitedly. “Aha, I have it! 
Where’s Charley and my Kathleen. No black 
looks of woe there, I’ll be bound ; they’re gay and 
smiling, their voices ringing with happiness — 
and ” 

“Good morning.” It was a voice of gloom 
and despair close behind him. Father Kelly 
turned quickly and faced — not the debonnaire 
youth of the evening before, but a Charley Har- 
row whose face was drawn into a frown. He 
looked at him a moment unable to believe his 
own eyes. 

“Good mornings” said Charley again, gruffly, 
and shoving his hands deep into his pockets, 
slouched over to the window, where he studied 
the barren landscape. 

Father Kelly conferred with Lee in a whisper. 

‘‘What ails him, do you think?” 

“He’s got ’em, Father!” 


A Question of Erin 


in 


“Got what?” 

“All there is to get, and then some more also.” 

“You reason like a hedgehog, Lee. I think 
he's having fun with us.” 

“Having fun with that face. Father?” 

“Of course, the face is part of the game. Do 
you mind now. I’ll have him out of it.” He 
cleared his throat loudly. “Look you here, 
Charles Harrow — I ” 

He stopped abruptly, for Kathleen came in 
from the library. Her arms were piled high 
with books of various sizes, and there was upon 
her face a look of grim determination. Behind 
her, as a body guard, marched Lesura Watkins^ 
loaded with still another assortment of volumes. 

“Lee,” whispered Father Kelly, “something 
has happened, or is going to happen,” he added, 
for he saw Charley turn at the window, in evi- 
dent trepidation, and edge his way to the piano. 

Kathleen placed the books she carried upon the 
table and Lesura followed her action exactly. 
Father Kelly, with an elaborate air of unconcern, 
strolled over to Kathleen, who, planted behind 
the table, was arranging her literary battery with 
some evident purpose. 

Wondering what it could all mean, Lee craned 
his head forward curiously, when he felt a light 
touch on his arm. Lesura stood behind him and, 
as he turned to her, she gravely handed him a 
cane. He took it from her hand, looked at it, 
and inquired: “Yes; but what’s the idea of 
handing me this dress up stick?” 

She nodded soberly. “Why, you said I ought 
to get the hook 1” 

12 


172 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


“Yes, I did, and really, I think so now more 
than ever.” 

“I hope it’s the right one, Mr. Martin.” She 
took it from him and looked at the handle, which 
had a most obvious crook. “This is the only 
hook I haven’t got for you.” 

She handed it back to him and paused. “What 
are you laughing at, Mr. Martin ?” 

Lee took the cane, not by the handle, but at 
the end close to the ferrule. He gazed at the 
hook in the handle, then at Lesura. “I’m laugh- 
ing at my joke about Sam. Say, couldn’t you 
manage just a gentle snicker, or a ladylike tee- 
hee, what?” 

“No,” she answered, soberly; “because it isn’t 
funny.” 

He looked down again at the hooked handle 
of the cane and urged her gently with his elbow. 
“It isn’t, eh? Well, you try it on someone and 
see. Try it now.” 

Lesura took a step forward and yielded to the 
suggestion. 

“My friend Sam was put in a can,” she said, 
loudly and monotonously. 

Father Kelly and Charley turned to her, sur- 
prised. 

“What in the world ” began Father Kelly, 

but stopped as Lee signaled him vigorously over 
Lesura’s head. 

“Yes,” said Lesura again, in a high sing song 
voice. “Yes, they put Sam in a can.” 

“Sam who?” asked Charley, impatiently? 

There was a pause. Lesura frowned ; she was 
a little unprepared for this. Then her brow 








A Question of Erin 


173 


cleared ; of course she knew what to say ; it was 
one word — a fish. Yes, she knew. She spoke it 
triumphantly : 

“Codfish r 

“Ah,” cried Lee, “you do get the hook,” and 
encircling her neck with the cane’s handle, he 
dragged Lesura protesting, through the arch and 
down the hall. 

Father Kelly’s laughter was Homeric. He 
went to the arch and called after them: “The 
hook !” 

Kathleen rapped sharply on the table. “Hush, 
please. Uncle !” 

He turned and examined her closely. Lines 
of determination were visible on her comely face. 
Little by little he became solicitous for her wel- 
fare. “What’s ailing you, Katy?” he asked. 

“Just this. Uncle Brian.” She rested one hand 
on the table and he noticed about her a vague 
air of command. “You know, Mr. Harrow has 
asked me to marry him?” 

“Though I didn’t hear him, Katy, still I’ll take 
your word for it.” He turned and smiled at 
Charley, waggishly. 

“She hasn’t said yes, yet,” returned Charley, 
mournfully. 

Father Kelly gave him a friendly dig with his 
elbow. 

“Mr. Harrow,” broke in Kathleen, sharply, 
“who was Brian Boru?” 

“What’s that?” ejaculated Father Kelly. 

“Brian Boru ?” repeated young Harrow, feebly. 

“Yes, Mr. Harrow; who was Brian Boru?” 

Father Kelly put up his hand in protest. 


174 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“Wait, please, one moment. Now list to me, 
Katy; what is all this?" 

Kathleen looked up sternly from the large 
book she held open before her. “Uncle Brian, 
you know I have always said I would only marry 
an Irishman." 

A great light dawned upon the priest. He 
pursed up his lips into a silent whistle and put 
his hand on the young man’s shoulders. 

“Have you no Irish blood in you, Charles 
Harrow? Sure and that’s a name from the old 
dart." 

“Of course, Father; I’m half Irish." 

Father Kelly turned triumphantly to Kathleen. 
“Didn’t you hear him, Katy ?’’ 

“Yes, he said the same thing to me not half an 
hour ago, in the library, and now" — she struck 
the open volume in her hand — “I’m going to 
find out. If he’s Irish, he knows the history of 
his native land." 

“Of course," agreed her uncle. “So fire away, 
and I’ll see fair play. Hold up your head, Charles 
Harrow, and remember the gxeatest trait of the 
Irishman is — he’s a fighter who never knows that 
he’s beaten. Hurroo!" The burr of his own 
dear Irish hills and vales was in the music of his 
tone. “Hurroo!" he repeated, and looked sig- 
nificantly at young Harrow. 

“Hurrah!" echoed Charley, feebly. 

“Not like that," reproached Father Kelly, 
frowning. “You hurrah in New Jersey; or in 
Maine, or in that small and deluded state of 
Rhode Island, but in Ireland you — Hurroo!" 

Charley nodded blankly and settled his chin 


A Question of Erin 


175 


into his collar nervously. — I’m ready for the 
test, Kath Miss O’Connor!” 

Kathleen eyed him sternly. “Who was Brian 
Boru?” 

“Why — he — he was — he was 

“Take your time, Charles Harrow,” urged 
Father Kelly; “take your ” 

“Do you know?” asked Kathleen, with some 
asperity. 

The young man’s face cleared and he smiled. 
Did he know? He would show them. “Yes,” he 
replied, “Brian Boru played third base on the 
Pittsburg nine. His batting average was 320. 
He’s a great base runner — he ” 

Father Kelly, who had listened horrified to 
this Celtic desecration, threw up his hands with 
a gesture of suflfocation. “Stop it! stop it!” he 
gasped. “Man alive, you’re ruining, the Irish 
Nation; you’re filling up the Irish sea and trying 
to annex the dear old Emerald Isle to the boss 
ridden state of Pennsylvania.” 

“Wasn’t I right?” asked Charley, feebly. 

“No, you were wrong,” cried Father Kelly, 
accusingly; “so wrong that if I didn’t love you 

I’d — I’d . Brian Boru a ball player! I 

wonder the Heavens don’t fall down on you !” 

“Well, who was Brian Boru?” 

“One of the great Kings of Old Ireland,” said 
Kathleen, proudly, and she closed the book as 
though the matter were ended and his fate sealed. 

“Help!” said young Harrow, and he dropped 
into a chair. 

Father Kelly interceded for him. “Well, sure, 
Katy dear, give the lad another chance. Ah, do. 
See now, he may be weak on history.” ^ 


176 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

After a pause, Kathleen nodded and began a 
search among the books upon the table. 

“If you love me/’ whispered her uncle to the 
apprehensive young man in the chair, “if you 
love me, don’t hand me another jolt like that !” 

“Are you ready, Mr. Harrow?” Kathleen had 
opened a hostile looking, book of large propor- 
tions, bound in suggestive green. 

Charley, obeying Father Kelly’s nod, got to his 
feet. “I — I guess so ! Ye — yes !” 

“Now, then, take your time, lad; take your 
time !” But though he spoke with a brave tone. 
Father Kelly’s confidence in young Harrow was 
evidently a good deal shaken. 

An ominous pause succeeded. Kathleen was 
turning the leaves of the formidable tome she 
held with nerve racking slowness. 

“Looking for a bombshell,” whispered her 
uncle. Then his face cleared as he heard Kath- 
leen’s second question. 

“Mr. Harrow, where did the Fenians come 
from ?” 

Good Father Kelly locked his hands behind his 
back and rocked himself on his heels and toes 
comfortably. “Sure, ’tis all over but the hurroos, 
Charley,” he smiled. “That question! Why, 
not to answer it would disgrace any Celt. We 
drew it in with our first Ireaths of lowland fog 
and peat smoke. Come on now, Harrow AbooH 

“Why — they — the, the Fenians ” faltered 

Charley. 

“Go right after them, my lad,” cried his friend, 
smiling. 

^“The Fenians came from Buffalo, New York!” 


A Question of Erin 


177 


Father Kelly choked suddenly; the smile of 
encouragement, of confidence, left his face, and 
he spread his arms wide as though groping for 
support. 

“You see. Uncle Brian, it’s impossible; he’s 

not Irish, he, he — oh ” and Kathleen dropped 

the book upon the table with a crash, and with 
the dignity of one of its heroes, swept majestically 
to the door. 

“Kathleen !” cried young Harrow, following 
her in the depths of despair, “Kathleen, just 
one word!” 

She gave it to him on the threshold, one slen- 
der hand holding back the curtain, her blue eyes 
flashing with the fire of her ancestors, who 
fought the Danes back into the sea ; who opposed 
Cromwell ; whose names are written large in the 
heroic history of the world. 

It was one, single word, as he asked. 

“Goodbye!” 

Charley took it like a man, head up and shoul- 
ders squared. He turned with a sheepish look 
and met Father Kelly’s stare of reproach and 
horror. 

“Oh, you villain !” said his friend. “Upon my 
word, if it wasn’t for the cloth I wear, I — I ” 

Charley interrupted him, plaintively. “Didn’t 
the Fenians come from Buffalo?” 

Father Kelly gasped for breath. Then he drew 
himself to his full height and his eyes gjowed. 
Through him spoke the Church Militant, built by 
the work of centuries, each block in its sacred pile 
a great, unselfish, sacrificing soul ; the marvelous 
edifice cemented by the blood of its Martyred 


178 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


Saints poured out like water for the glory of the 
Divine Being, and the good of sinning, strug- 
gling, ever advancing mankind. 

^‘List to me, boy! The Feni of Erin were the 
Irish militia of the third century. Their com- 
mander was Finn, son of Cumhall, the father of 
Oisim. They were giants in stature, renowned in 
arms and feats of strength ; the glory and honor 
of the Old Sod lay in their hands; if they lived 
today. Old Ireland would be Free, Free!” He 
paused for a moment, and then added, sorrow- 
fully : “And you stand there and say they came 
from Buffalo. Oh! I could weep for shame of 
you !” 

But historical blunders were not just then occu- 
pying. Charley’s attention. His miind was focused 
on the girl he loved, who had just swept from the 
room. 

“What can I do to win Kathleen?” he asked, 
timorously. 

Father Kelly turned and surveyed him a mo- 
ment, not unkindly. At all events, the lad did 
not give up. It was a trait he understood and 
honored. He turned quickly to the table and 
caught up an armful of the books there. 

“You might make a beginning here, Charley 
Harrow. Take these, and these, and this heavy 
one.” He piled them high on the young fellow’s 
arm and pushed him gently toward the library. 
“Learn all there is in those books about Ireland, 
then come back and reel it off to her.” 

“I’ll do it. Father!” cried Charley, warming 
up with the prospect of even a fighting chance. 
“Yes, and I’ll go you one better! No, don’t ask 


A Question of Erin 


179 


me what it is, but Til do it. I love Kathleen, 
Father ; no matter what I am, I love her, and 111 
win her ; you’ll see !” 

He strode from the study with the light of a 
great purpose in his eye. Father Kelly looked 
after him and nodded wisely. 

‘‘Well!” he said, smiling up at the ceiling 
thoughtfully. “Sure the boy has the first quali- 
fication to be an Irishman. He knows what he 
wants, and, faith, he’ll fight until he gets it.” 

Then he paused and his face grew very grave 
and earnest, for he heard a soft footfall coming 
nearer. 

Vera was descending the stairs. 


180 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER XV 
The Crisis in Eden 

HERE was a little suggestion of faltering 



about Vera, as she came into the study. Her 


aching nerves and throbbing, pulses could 
bear the suspense of her own room no longer. 
Anything was better than this state of doubt, of 
mental turmoil, she told herself. The door to the 
stairway opened into the study, so at first she did 
not see Father Kelly. 

He was glad of that. 

From the corner of the broad window em- 
brasure, whither he had withdrawn at the first 
hint of her coming, he stole a look at her over 
the top of the book he had taken from a low case. 

She was very pale, and the worried, harried, 
hunted look in her brown eyes gripped all the 
sympathy of his great human soul. Once in the 
Adirondacks he had seen a doe with that same 
look of anguish in her eyes turn upon the men 
who hunted her. 

Father Kelly had interposed then and the wild 
creature had gone free. Somehow the same 
scene came back to him now. The great trees, 
the little brook, the towering mountains, the 
little lake just beyond the rocks, and the cruel 
face of the man who hunted 

“Why, Father Kelly !” She had seen him and 
he noticed, with a little pang of sorrow, that her 
first impulse had been to retreat up the stairs. 




‘‘Don’t/' he said, very softly 







The Crisis in Eden 


181 


He closed the book and smiled reassuringly at 
her, trying to put into his gaze all the friendship 
he felt for this young wife, who stepped so near 
to tragedy. 

“Good morning, acushla machree!” The old 
Celtic greeting was like a caress from his lips. 

She closed her eyes for a moment, and her 
sweet face quivered; then she made a brave ef- 
fort. 

“Doesn^t that sound charming — those old Irish 
words Her laugh was a little sharp and shrill 
to his quick ear. 

“I mean them!’' 

“After my not coming down until this hour, 
leaving you all alone.” She laughed again and 
her eyes did not meet his clear gaze. “You’re 
very forgiving. Father Kelly.” 

The priest laid the book upon the table and 
leaned over it. 

“Don’t,” he said, very softly. 

“Don’t what?” Her hand sought the support 
of a high backed chair ; her fingers unconsciously 
followed the lines of its carving. 

Father Kelly came quite close to Vera and his 
voice was very low and earnest. “Don’t treat me 
like one of your society friends !” 

Vera tried to laugh. “What are you talking 
about. Father Kelly?” 

The priest’s voice was tense with conviction. 
“This: you’ll need a real friend before this day 
is over.’ 

As though his words touched an aching spot, 
she swept by him, over to the window, threw it 
open and breathed the heavy, moist air. The lace 


182 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

upon her breast rose and fell quickly and she 
pressed one hand there. 

'‘I must speak,” said Father Kelly, shaking his 
head slowly. “I am a guest under your roof, 
but before and above all conventions, I am your 
loyal friend and your husband’s !” 

He paused for a moment, but the only sign she 
gave was a backward movement of her head as 
though she were steadying herself. 

“Treat me like your friend, Vera.” His voice 
rang with such deep affection that she turned and 
looked at him. 

“What do you mean. Father?” 

“Tell me about last night.” 

She gave a quick gasp, almost as though his 
words had chilled her. 

“Tell me all,” he persisted. 

“I cant I I can’t I” and she started almost wildly 
toward the stairway. 

Father Kelly stopped her with a single sen- 
tence as he leaned over the table. 

“Do you love Bruce ?” 

Her hand paused on the knob and she leaned 
her face upon the edge of the half opened door. 

“Do you love Bruce; do you love your home?” 
His words cut through her consciousness like a 
rapier blade. 

“Yes, yes, with all my heart, soul, strength!” 
She stood erect, her back to the heavy oaken 
door, her eyes dilated, every faculty in her wom- 
an’s heart alive and quivering. 

The priest did not move towards her, but his 
wonderful eyes looked a very heaven of compas- 
sion. 


The Crisis in Eden 


183 


"A great danger threatens Bruce, you, this 
home; your very life and happiness.” 

Her hands went up to her throat in a despair- 
ing gesture. “Don’t ; please, please, don’t ! I’ve 
— I’ve been awake all night. I couldn’t sleep. 
Something seems to be hanging, over me — over 

Bruce ” ‘Her voice ended in a sob of pain. 

She threw out her hands with the gesture of one 
who feels the turgid, bitter waters of sorrow over- 
whelming, stifling “Help me. Father; help 

— me ” 

His hands flew out to her, and so for a moment 
she clung to their sturdy, comforting clasp. Then 
the blessed relief of tears came. 

Father Kelly put her in a broad chair and drew 
another close by her side. He did not try to 
check the tears. Rather he was glad to see them ; 
anything was better than her stony, dry eyed 
misery, for Nature will have an outlet to sorrow, 
else her Life force turns and rends the physical 
body and mind. 

“Mavourneen,” he said, very gently, when the 
first passion of her grief was over. “I’d lay 
down my life for you, or Bruce, but” — and his 
voice grew grave — “you must tell me all.” 

“You won’t repeat. Father ” 

He smiled down at her kindly. “Vera, child, 
remember my office. All my life, grief stricken, 
sin laden human beings have been coming to me, 
for the peace that comes from confession and for- 
giveness there. Tell me!” 

She shook her head slowly. “Father, I know 
no more than you do about last night!” 

The priest looked at her keenly. No, her eyes 


184 


Father Kelly of the Rosary ; 

looked into his with truth and candor in them. 
He shook his head. There was again the feeling 
of something intangible, something just beyond 
his mental reach. Slowly he paced the heavy car- 
pet of the study and turned, looking at Vera 
thoughtfully. 

“May I ask you a few questions?” 

She nodded and her eyes followed him grate- 
fully. Already he had brought an inward peace 
to her. The problem looming so black and 
menacing when she faced it alone, did not seem 
an impossible one now that his mind was grap- 
pling with it. Yes, she knew that Father Kelly 
would solve it. 

Through the half hazy mist of her quieted mind 
his mellow voice came to her in a question. 

“Why did you come down to this room, after 
we had said good night?” 

“I was worried, Father; I couldn’t sleep. I 
thought perhaps it was because Alice, my sister, 
had been feeling poorly. I went to her room and 
she wasn’t there. Then I thought I heard her 
moan. It seemed to come from the study, so I 
came down the stairs.” 

“You had no light?” 

“No, I felt my way.” 

“Well, you came down those stairs.” He 
went over to the door and opened it, looking 
about the room. 

“Yes, Father.” 

“Was your sister in this room when you 
opened that door, Vera?” 

She nodded. 

“Will you show me about where?” 


The Crisis in Eden 185 

Vera rose to her feet. *‘Why, here, I think — 
yes, here. It was so dark I couldn’t see dis- 
tinctly at first; then I caught a shimmer of the 
gray dress Alice wore ” 

Father Kelly left the door and went quickly to 
the spot Vera had indicated. He noted that it 
was midway between the two French windows. 
Then, as a sudden thought flashed through his 
mind, he asked another more significant question. 

'‘Was your sister alone here?” 

Vera hesitated. “I don’t know. It was very 
dark. I couldn’t see at all plainly.” 

“Please don’t keep anything back from me, 
Vera.” 

She turned to him, inquiringly. “Did you see 
anyone ?” 

The priest was reflecting deeply. Vera came a 
step nearer. “You saw my sister here. Father?” 

He shook his head. “No ; I came through those 
curtains from the library when the piano keys 
sounded Who ?” He looked at her, in- 

quiringly. 

“I did that, in the dark; I was confused, fright- 
ened.” 

Father Kelly nodded comprehendingly. “You 
can’t see this spot in the room from the angle of 
those curtains,” he said, crossing the study to 
verify his words. 

Something in his look or manner hurt her. She 
tried to throw off the feeling, and then yielded 
to the subtle fear that had pursued her all the 
long night. 

“Father Kelly, do you believe I came down to 
this room for any other purpose than to find my 
sister ?” 


186 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


He looked at her thoughtfully before he an- 
swered. ‘I’m afraid that is what your husband 
is thinking, Vera.” 

Though the words were gentle, the implication 
stung her. “Do you believe that; do you, do 
you?” 

She came towards him almost wildly, her 
hands outstretched, her voice quivering. The 
priest caught them in his own to steady her as he 
answered: ‘T wish I were as sure of Heaven, 
my girl, as I am of your truth and purity 1” 

“Thank you, Father,” she said, brokenly ; 
“thank you.” 

He put the matter in a new light, as she turned 
away from him. “But don’t you see, Vera, I’m 
not the one to be convinced.” 

“You mean Bruce?” she asked, leaning heavily 
upon the piano and staring at him. 

He nodded briefly. “Yes. You know him; 
rash, impetuous, headlong, emotional; heart all 
right, but liable to be swerved from the right 
path by sudden impulse.” He paused, hesitated a 
moment, and then added, softly: “Jealous, too.” 

Vera nodded and the tears came to her eyes. 
She was thinking of yesterday, in the arbor, and 
her words to Bruce: “Sometimes I’m afraid I 
may do something.” Her eyes closed as she 
thought of his caress that had driven away her 
forebodings; the memory was an exquisite pain 
now. 

Father Kelly broke in on her reverie, almost 
sharply. “Your sister has gone, they tell me. 
Do you know where she is?” 

Vera shook her head. 


The Crisis in Eden 


187 


^She went away ” 

‘‘When I found her here in the study, I — I tried 
to detain her, to talk to her ; but she broke away 
from me and darted out through that win- 
dow ” She stopped abruptly, for a strange 

look came over her friend’s face. “What is it* 
Father?” she asked, in a whisper. 

The priest passed his hand slowly over his 
eyes. “There it is again,” he said, in such a low, 
hushed tone that she hardly heard him. 

“What, Father?” 

“Sure, I don’t know 1” He closed his eyes as 
if to shut out all visual impressions, and spoke 
softly, as though to study carefully his own feel- 
ing. “A strange sensation of evil came over me 
just then, as though the very embodiment of 
Satan stood behind me.” 

Vera shivered slightly. “Don’t, please. Fa- 
ther. She rose from the chair into which she had 
dropped, with a little gesture of warding off 
something. 

“Fm only telling you,” he soothed her. “ ’Tis 
only my fancy, maybe.” 

“What can I do. Father?” she asked, after a 
pause. 

“Wait,” he answered, briefly. “Do nothing 
when you’re in doubt — ^wait, think” — his voice 
dropped — “pray — the answer will come ; the way 
will always open.” 

There was silence between them for a time. 
Vera closed her eyes. She did pray; not in 
words, for none came to her. It was the higher 
supplication of the spirit that she offered; the 
yearning call of the human soul, that, through all 


188 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

the ages since time began, has been answered, 
always. A great peace stole over her, and she 
felt the flow of new life and hope surge through 
her. She looked at Father Kelly, and a question 
rose to her lips. 

‘‘Bruce ; where is he 

“Gone for a walk, Lee said. Have you seen 
him since last night, Vera?’* 

She shook her head dumbly, the old, cruel pain 
stabbing at her again. 

A step sounded outside the window. Vera 
turned with a quick look at her friend, and he 
nodded. 

“It may be Bruce,” he said. “I hope it is, for 
then ” 

Kenward Wright came in through the window, 
and smiled genially. 

“Good morning, Vera, Father Kelly,” he said. 

Vera nodded and turned away to hide the tears 
of disappointment that would come. 

“Back so soon, Mr. Wright?” asked the priest. 

Kenward nodded. “Yes; finished up the busi- 
ness that took me away. Stupid to call me into 
town; wanted my opinion on some property on 
Long Island. You know, Fm supposed to be 

an expert on real estate there ” He stopped 

abruptly, and looked at them both keenly. “I 
say, anything the matter? Vera, you’re looking 
pale and drawn!” 

She nodded dumbly. “I’ve had a bad night, 
Ken.” 

“Sorry for that.” He threw his rain coat over 
his arm and went towards the hallway arch. 
“Cheer up, Vera; the sun will be out in a few 


The Crisis in Eden 189 

hours, and we’ll all feel better. Til run up to my 
room.” He paused and turned to them. “Oh, I 
say, what’s the matter with Bruce?” 

Vera stopped abruptly on her way to the west 
window. Her hand grasped the corner of the 
piano and she looked tremulously at Father 
Kelly ; she could not trust herself to speak. 

“Have you seen Bruce this morning, Mr. 
Wright?” asked the priest. 

Kenward nodded. “As I drove up from the 
station. He was ploughing through the mud and 
mist with his head down, and a look on his face 
that gave me a shock.” He looked at them for a 
moment and then asked: “Nothing the — matter, 
is there ?” 

Vera shook her head. 

“I’m glad of that. Mind if I have the cook 
get me a cup of coffee ; I was hurried this morn- 
ing. Thanks.” He drew the curtain on the arch 
aside and looked at her curiously as he inquired: 
“Why didn’t you let me know your sister Alice 
was here last night, Vera?” 

“How did you know she was here, Ken?” 

“The station master told me this morning ; said 
she caught the next train after the one I took. 
Why did she go in town at that time of night?” 

Vera shook her head. “I don’t know, Ken.” 

“Nor where she went?” 

“No.” 

“Haven’t you heard from her today?” 

“No. Go and get your coffee, Ken.’* 

“Yes,” he said, slowly; “but it’s very odd. If 
I can be of any use, let me know.” 

Vera nodded to him as he left the study. Then 


190 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

she turned to Father Kelly and put her hand to 
her head confusedly. “Alice went in town — in 
the storm — at that hour — why ” 

The priest cut her short; his mind had been 
busy with another phase of their problem. 

“You see where you stand/' he said. “Your 
husband is out tramping the countryside, fighting 
his doubts of you and the only person who can 
prove to him that you came down to this room 
last night for the reason you name, is — ^your 
sister !" 

“I know, I know!" Vera cried, despairingly, 
and then she paused before the drawn curtains at 
the other end of the room. “Bruce," she whis- 
pered ; “Bruce, you doubt, doubt me — and on the 
anniversary of the day I gave myself to you. 
Why, Father," she turned swiftly to the priest; 
“my present for Bruce is here behind these cur- 
tains." 

Father Kelly waved her words aside. Nothing 
should turn him from the matter in hand. 

“We must find your sister," he decided. 

Vera struck her hands together impatiently as 
she answered. “How? how? how?’ 

“I don’t know, but there must be some way!" 

Why did Alice go away like that!" she cried, 
pacing restlessly up and down. “Find the 
reason !’’ 

“Find the man !" The words fell from Father 
Kelly’s lips sharply. He had found a fulcrum 
for the lever of his thought. 

“Father!" She had turned at the table and 
was staring at him. 

He shook his head impatiently. “This is no 
time to mince matters, Vera." 


The Crisis in Eden 


191 


"Find the man/’ she repeated, slowly; the 
words were an echo of her own thoughts that 
she had put away from her — tried to drive from 
her mind. 

“Find the — man/’ she said again, slowly, and 
laid her hand upon his arm, tremulously. “Fa- 
ther !” Her voice had a note of awe in it. “Can 
you look into another’s mind?” 

The deep resonance of his voice filled the 
study. “To save you and Bruce, whom I love as 
though you were my own, I believe God would 
give me that power.” 

She moved a little away ; a power beyond that 
of earth and its mortal life seemed to envelop 
him. 

“You have thought that, too, Vera,” he said, 
simply, after a pause. 

She bowed her head and a quick flush swept 
over her cheek and brow. She half turned away 
to hide it. “Oh!” she murmured, “it can’t be! 
Alice, my sister ” 

“Is there any other possible reason for your 
sister’s action, Vera? We must face the facts. 
She came down here last night — left her room 
and stole down those stairs. A man was here in 
the study 

Vera interrupted sharply: “You saw him. 
Father?” 

The priest shook his head. “I saw a dim 
shadow glide out of that window.” 

She nodded, her eyes wide with wonder. “I 
thought I saw it, too !” 

“This morning/’ he went on, “I rose early. I 
went out into the grounds. There was no one 


192 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

stirring in the house. Vera, there were impres- 
sions in the soft earth at that window. They 
w’ere half obliterated by the rain, but they were 
there. Someone had stolen softly on tiptoe to 
that window ; the same person had left this room 
in haste.’’ He paused a moment that she might 
grasp this thoroughly. Then he went on. ‘‘Yes, 
a man was in this room last night with your sis- 
ter. Who was he?” 

“I don’t know, Father.” 

He took both her hands in his and spoke ear- 
nestly. “Think, acushla ; it’s your life’s happiness 
that’s at stake. Yes, and Bruce’s. Think!” 

She looked up into his face and the tears 
rushed to her eyes at the sympathy, the loyal 
friendship in his voice. 

Then she shook her head dumbly. *T don’t 
know,” she faltered. 

Father Kelly sighed. “Let us both think, 
Vera,” he said. “ ’Tis a hard problem, but — the 
way will openT 

She drew a deep breath at the firm conviction 
of his tone ; this man had the faith that removes 
mountains. 

The clock checked off the moments from the 
mantel; a vagrant wind stirred the curtains at 
the window. 

Then the telephone upon the table rang sharply. 




“It is a message from Bellevue Hosoital 



The Throb of Tragedy 


193 


CHAPTER XVI 

The Throb of Tragedy 

T he sharp, vibrant note of the 'phone bell 
set every nerve in Vera to jangling. She 
looked at the priest, and his calm face 
steadied her. 

Again the 'phone bell sounded; it seemed to 
have a more insistent note. 

“Answer it, Vera,” he said, quietly, and she 
went to the table and put the receiver to her ear. 

“Well Yes, this is Mr. Wilton's country 

house Yes, this is Mrs. Wilton at the 'phone. 

What Please — please speak louder. Why — 

I— I ” 

The instrument fell from her hand and she 
reeled as though she had been struck. 

“Steady!” cried Father Kelly, springing to her. 
“Steady; so — ^now, there, get a grip of yourself, 
girir 

She clung to him silently, until the pounding of 
her pulses ceased ; until the dark mist that had, in 
an instant, covered the room, faded away; then 
she looked up at him and tried to smile. 
“Father 1” 

“Sure and I'm here,” he replied, cheerily. 
“Here, close beside you; feel the grip of my 
hand? Steady, steady.” tt, 

Vera looked up at him pitifully. “It's a — a 
message from Bellevue Hospital, New York 
City,” she panted ; then a sob tore from her. 


194 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

'Take your own time, my girl.” His voice 
held and calmed her. 

“It’s — it’s about — about Alice !” Her voice 
broke into a husky whisper, and she waited a 
moment, gaining courage from his level gaze and 
the grip of his hands on her arm. “Alice — she — 
she was knocked down by an automobile early 
this morning in New York City.” 

“Yes. I hear ye, mavourneen ; don’t lose hold 
of yourself again. Steady !” 

“They — they found a — a — my card in her 
purse. She’s there, badly hurt. Father!” 

“You must go to her,” he said instantly, divin- 
ing what would bring Vera the most comfort. 

“I’ll take you!” 

“You will?” she sobbed. 

Father Kelly nodded. “See when the next train 
leaves,” he said ; and while she caught up a time 
table from the desk, he picked up the receiver 
and put it to his ear. 

“Is that Bellevue Hospital?” he asked. “Ah! 
thank you for holding the line. This is Brian Kelly 

talking What? Oh, you know me, do you? 

And pray, who are you? What? Is that you, 
Dennis O’Hara — well! well! well!” He smiled 
and put his hand over the mouthpiece as he 
turned to Vera. “Sure, and it’s one of my old 
boys from the Five Point Mission. O’Hara, a 
wild youngster. Go get your things on.” 

Vera looked up from her examination of the 
time table with a sob. “There’s no train for an 
hour. Father!” 

“Wait a bit, Danny,” he said through the 
’phone ; then he turned to her again. “Go, Vera, 
and make yourself ready, anyhow.” 


190 


The Throb of Tragedy 

She turned toward the stairway, but in the 
Confused tangle of her thoughts, one thread drew 

her back to him. “If Bruce comes, Father ** 

she laid her feverish hand on his shoulder and 
bent close to his ear: “Tell him I love him!’* 

The priest looked up at her and smiled. “Faith, 
1*11 give him that message, and more beside, 
child!’* 

Just a moment she hesitated, and then went 
hurriedly up the stairs. 

“Now, then, Dan,” and Father Kelly turned to 
the ’phone; “talk to me. How badly is the lady 
hurt? Seriously? That’s bad. I’m glad you 
didn’t tell Mrs. Wilton that.” He thought a 
moment and then spoke again, his eyes bright 
with a new idea. “Listen, now: Could the lady 
’phone Mrs. Wilton? No, wait — I mean, could 
she answer if Mrs. Wilton called her? What? 
Ah ! There’s a ’phone in her room, you say — and 
— and she’s conscious? Good. I’m bringing 
Mrs. Wilton in by the next train, but she may 
want to speak with her sister meanwhile.” 

He paused and started to hang up the receiver, 
but a sudden thought checked him. “Danny,” 
he called; answer me one thing. “Are you a 
good boy? If I could see you, I wouldn’t have 
to ask the question ; but you can’t look along the 
wire — yet.” A smile broke over his face as the 
line vibrated to the reply. “You are? Good! 
That’s fine. I never forget you in my prayers, 
lad. That’s a good lad,” he murmured as he 
hung up the instrument and rose from the chair. 

He moved over to the curtains that covered 
the archway to the hall, for his mind had swung 


196 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

back again to the my?tery of last night. Perhaps 
there might be some flaw in his reasoning. 

As he drew back the curtains and stepped 
through the arch, trying to reproduce the phys- 
ical surroundings when he had entered the study 
from the library, Bruce came in through the 
French window. He did not see his friend, for 
his head was bent low, and he seemed intent on 
some thought. 

It struck the priest like a flash that perhaps he, 
too, had been looking for footprints in the damp 
earth. 

Father Kelly crossed the study slowly. Bruce 
had thrown his mackintosh over a chair and sunk 
down by the table in an attitude of helpless mis- 
ery. His friend stood thoughtfully regarding 
him a moment, then gently laid his hand upon 
his shoulder. 

Bruce started to his feet quickly. **Good morn- 
ing, Father Kelly’* ; but he did not turn and face 
him. 

“Good morning,” replied the priest gently, and 
then added: “You’re not going into town, lad?” 

“No ; my manager Evarts is there.’" 

“But didn’t you tell me yesterday that you had 
business today of more than usual importance?” 

“Yes, a big deal ; but it’s all right. Evarts has 
his orders ; he’ll carry it through.” 

Father Kelly shook his head. “Isn’t that 
tempting Fate, Bruce?” 

“No, my plans are too well laid ; they’ve been 
kept too secret.” He pushed the whole matter 
away from him with impatient gesture. “Don’t 
let’s talk of business — ^business— -as though any- 


197 


The Throb of Tragedy 

thing could matter when — when ’’ Again he 

stopped abruptly, and whirling on his heel 
skirted the table and moved restlessly over to the 
piano. Then, with a laugh, he tried to hide his 
real feelings in conventionalities. '‘Hope you’ll 
pardon my dashing off the way I did this morn- 
ing, Father. Did they give you any breakfast?” 

Father Kelly came over to him and stood silent 
until he forced Bruce to look at him. Wavering, 
the eyes came up to meet the priest’s, and the 
misery in them, the pain, the anguish, the hor- 
rible doubts smote the Father like a cruel blow. 

He waited a moment, fearing to trust his voice ; 
then he said, slowly : “And this is how you treat 
me after all these years?” 

Bruce tore himself away from the accusing 
eyes. “Fm treating you like a friend.” 

The reply came sharp and insistent. “Asking 
your pardon, Bruce, but you’re not.” 

-Why ” 

“You come into this room,” Father Kelly went 
on; “I ste you sunk in the depths of black de- 
spair. Do you think I don’t know how you feel ? 
Man, dear, I’ve suffered with you all the long 
night, but when I come to you and put out my 
hand, you try to throw me off.” 

Bruce dropped his head. Yes, that was exactly 

what he had done; but He clenched his 

hands, and the words were torn from him : “It’s 
the only safe way!” 

“It’s not!” The priest’s contradiction came 
back like a bullet, without apology or palliation. 
“It’s the coward’s way, and you’re not that I” 

The man writhed under the priest’s words. 


198 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Father Kelly knew the nature with which he had 
to deal. No half way measures would do here. 
His better self must be aroused to meet this dis- 
aster that threatened his home. Doubts must be 
stated in the broad light; suspicions dragged 
into the open; jealousy met face to face — for in 
silence, darkness, they work their mischief in a 
household. 

All the man's efforts were given to avoid dis- 
cussion. He had thought until his brain reeled. 

“There are some things you don’t understand,” 
he said, huskily, and turned away. 

“Not about you,” came the hammerlike tones 
of his friend; “and I tell you now you must 
speak out, Bruce. Never fly from trouble. Meet 
it and give it a crack in its ugly face.” 

“You’re making me remember. Father, what 
I’ve walked miles to forget.” The tone was plead- 
ing now ; not harsh, as it had been. 

“And you didn’t succeed. You brought it back 
with you, riding on your shoulders and sinking 
its spur deep in you.” 

Sharp pain showed in the man’s face. He 
clenched his hands and cried out, huskily : 
“Don’t ; you’re torturing me !” 

“The surgeon tortures, Bruce; but he cures'" 

“You can’t help me, Father.” 

The priest came nearer, and his voice took a 
vibrant tone of hope. “God can, Bruce.” 

The words seemed to fill the study with music. 
Like a great and solemn anthem they came from 
the Father’s lips. Something like a presence 
seemed to stir in the air about the two friends. 

The man crouched forward in the chair, his 


199 


The Throb of Tragedy 

hands, locked over his forehead. He felt the in- 
fluence, but only for a moment. He dashed his 
fist down upon his knee and rose to his feet. 

“No; He can’t help me!” he cried, harshly; 
“because I’m an unbeliever, an atheist. I know 
I’m hurting you, Father Kelly; but if you want 

me to talk, you must bear what I say. I’m ” 

He stopped abruptly and looked at his friend, for 
the priest stood silent, his eyes closed, and lines 
of pain showing in his face. Half regretfully, 
Bruce took a step toward him. “What are you 
doing, Father?” 

There was a tense silence for a moment ; then 
the priest’s voice came to him in a tone of long- 
ing: “Praying for you, lad; to the Power that 
rules the world, and all in it; praying for your 
soul !” 

Then his eyes opened wide and there shone in 
them the fire of a tremendous will, as he cried, 
almost fiercely: “Evil shall not have you, lad. 
It may drag you close to the mouth of the pit, 
but old Father Kelly will never let you go. He’ll 
follow you and bring you back to love and to— 
God!” 

In the ecstasy of his divine purpose, he threw 
his arm about the man’s shoulders, as though 
already he felt an evil influence dragging at him. 

For a moment Bruce hesitated. Then he 
looked at the window that led out upon the lawn, 
and the same thought that had pursued him 
burned its way again through his agonized brain. 
Roughly he shook off the arm of his friend and 
walked toward the window. Then he turned, 
with a harsh laugh. “You say that, after last 
night. Father Kelly?” 


200 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


The priest faced him, unwavering. *T’ll say it 
with my last breath, dear lad.’' 

Bruce turned away. “And why not?” He 
dropped into a chair by the table and leaned his 
head on his hand. “You’re a priest, shut out 
from the world ! You don’t know what it is to 
love with your whole heart and soul — and then — 

then ” His voice died away as though he 

feared to put into words the thought in his 
mind. 

A fleeting look of pain came over Father 
Kelly’s face ; it seemed as though the words had 
touched some fountain of memory that had lain 
sealed for many years. 

“You think I don’t know,” he said, softly, as 
if memorv had taken him by the hand and was 
leading him up to the doors of some sacred 
shrine ; a holy place, consecrated by renunciation. 

“It’s nigh fcrty-five years since a boy and a girl 
stood by the side of a rippling stream in the old 
country. She was the fairest of God’s creatures ; 
gentleness and purity shone from her eyes; her 
soul was — white. And the boy, a mere stripling, 
looked at her and said: T love you, mavour- 
neen ; but there is something within me that calls 
me to work for mankind — to give my life to our 
church.’ And those two clasped hands and parted, 
never to meet again, until the sea shall give up its 
dead and parting shall be no more.” He paused, 
and his smile was that of one who had tasted the 
waters of life and knew their bitterness and their 
joy. His tone had a yearning tenderness as he 
said: “That girl was your mother, Bruce; the 


201 


The Throb of Tragedy 

lad myself. That’s why I love you, boy, for the 
sake of the girl who looks and longs and prays 
for her boy now — to the God that you deny.” 

Every fibre of Bruce’s being thrilled at the 
words. 

His mother, he could dimly remember 
her : a gentle, sweet faced woman, with a beauty 
almost ethereal. Then the long days when a 
stern faced man, his father, used to bring him to 
a room where his mother lay and lift him to her 
arms that held him tight. And then the day 
when there was a hush about the quaint old 
house, and people walked upon their tiptoes and 
talked in low tones. High up in his nursery he 
had heard the sound of voices singing; even the 
refrain he could remember: “Lead, kindly light, 
upon our earthly pathway.” 

He had dropped his marvelous train of toy cars 
and clung to his nurse, and begged her to take 
him to — to — mother. She had hushed him gently 
and told him that mother had gone away on a 
long, long journey, but that some day, if he was 
very, very good, he would see her again. There 
were tears in her eyes, as she told him this, and 
he had dried them and tried to comfort her. 
Then the long years of his youth, to manhood and 
understanding of his great loss — and — and Fa- 
ther Kelly. He knew now why the priest had 
worked so hard with him — why his eyes dwelt 
on him with such deep affection. He wondered 
if 

Sharp and clear came his friend’s voice : ‘TTow, 
Bruce, grip yourself; we’ll fight this out to- 
gether 1” 


SOS Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Like a savage flood all the old torturing doubts 
rolled back upon him. He started to his feet and 
threw out his hand desperately. It was the action 
of a drowning man. 

''I can’t ; I can’t !” he gasped. “When I think 
of last night, I’m in Hell !” 

Even for this Father Kelly had a reply. “Many 
a man, Bruce, has been there and come back 
safe.” 

The man shook his head. “No, I can’t think; 
I can’t reason it out.” His eyes roved wildly 
about the room, and fastened upon the weak 
man’s refuge, the decanter upon the escritoire. 
He made two steps towards it. 

“What are you doing, lad?” Father Kelly 
stepped before him with the challenge. 

Bruce paused and his voice was husky, as he 
replied : “I want a drink !” Then his hand closed 
upon the decanter. 

Father Kelly took it from him, not gently, but 
with decisive force. “You can’t have it,” he said. 
“Drink, is it, and your hands trembling, your eyes 
blazing? Not one drop.” 

“In God’s name. Father ” There was an 

agony' of appeal in his voice. 

The priest’s hand gripped his shoulder. “In 
His name. Not'* 

There was a command in his tone that could 
not be denied. Bruce bowed his head for shame 
at his weakness. He even tried to smile faintly, 
as Father Kelly locked the decanter closet and 
put the key in his pocket; then he dropped 
wearily into his study chair. Faintly, as though 
in the distance, he seemed to hear the priest’s 


203 


The Throb of Tragedy 

voice, but he could not distinguish the words. 
Everything seemed to have the hazy feeling of a 
dream. 

The thought sent the blood racing through his 
veins. Might not that be the explanation of this 
wild phantasmagoria that had been revolving 
about him? A — a dream. Yes, he felt sure that 
was it; he was dreaming.; he would wake pres- 
ently, for the rising bell would ring and he would 
feel his wife’s soft hand on his cheek — then they 
would laugh at this monstrous fancy of his sleep 
and 

He felt a light hand upon his arm and rose 
quickly from his chair. 

Vera was standing there, looking up into his 
face with eyes full of tender appeal. He looked 
down at her and all the sordid squalor of his sus- 
picions came back to him. A dream? No, it 
was reality. 

He waited for a moment without moving. She 
would say something; she must! But the doubt, 
suspicion in his eyes chilled Vera. What could 
she say? Nothing. Her eyes searched the study 
for Father Kelly, but he had left the room. The 
gentle closing of the library door told her where 
he was. Perhaps, he She hesitated 

Bruce tore himself away from the soft clasp 
of her fingers. “Don’t touch me,” he muttered, 
and went to the window. 

She took a step toward him and the tender 
curve of her lips quivered, like a child who has 
been struck a blow. “Bruce,” she said, with a 
pitiful quaver in her voice, “Bruce!” 

“Is that all you have to say ?” He turned, and 
his look and tone cut her like a lash. 

14 


204 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

She put out her hands weakly, despairingly, to 
him, but he did not move. Then she faced him 
bravely. “What do you want me to say, Bruce ?” 

Husband and wife faced each other across the 
study table; the age old battle of sex was on — 
there was no parley, no retreat, no compromise 
possible ; the issue must be fought out to the end. 

“You might explain!'’ 

His clenched hand rested on the table near her. 
She wanted to take it in both her own ; to lay her 
cheek upon it ; to pity him, pity herself ; wrapped 
about as they were with this coil of misery. 

Timidly she put her fingers on his wrist, but 
he snatched it away, almost as though there were 
contamination in her touch. 

And then the sheer white purity of the woman 
rose within her ; blameless in heart and soul, yes, 
blameless even in her thoughts, she faced him 
steadily and her tone was even and true as she 
asked : 

“What do you want me to explain ?” 

“Explain why you left our bed last night; 
why you came down to this room!” The sus- 
picion in his tone was like the searing touch of 
white hot steel to her soul. 

She felt a desire to scream; to tear herself 

to But she held herself with a firm hand, and 

never taking her eyes from his, replied steadily: 
“I was worried, Bruce; I couldn’t sleep. I ” 

Harshly he interrupted her. “Who was the 
man you met here ?” 

Color flamed into her pale, drawn face at this 
question and its veiled insinuation. “I met no 
one,” she said in a low, tense tone. 


205 


The Throb of Tragedy 

Bruce threw himself violently away from the 
table to the window. 

“There was a man in this room last night. 
Wait! I missed you; thought you might be ill. 
I threw on my dressing gown and came to 
those stairs. The window in that end of the 
hallway looks out on the grounds.’" With 
a gesture he indicated a point directly above 
the window at his back, “l paused to look out 
and I saw someone — a man — muffled in his coat, 
leave this room."" He took a step towards her. 
“Who was he?"" 

“I don’t know, Bruce. Indeed, dear, I — I 
don’t — don’t know !’" 

His clenched hands came together sharply and 
he paced the length of the room once ; then back 
to her. 

“You don’t know !” His words were hurled at 
her in a tone of bitter rebuke. “You don’t know ! 
I went over the grounds this morning. I found 
traces. That man waited out there under the 
shrubbery; he smoked a cigar while he waited. 
Then — then, when all was quiet, he came into this 
room. To meet you!** he finished, savagely. 

“No, no, no, Bruce !” 

“Then why did he come? He wasn’t a thief. 
There’s nothing missing. You came down 
here ” 

“Did you see me?” she asked, breathlessly. 
Perhaps here was a ray of hope. She might ap- 
peal to his reason — show him that 

But his tone, charged with the angry fire of 
jealousy that had burned away his better nature, 
cut short this thread she had grasped. 


206 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“No; Father Kelly shielded you. But, you did 
come ; you did come down here to this room V 

She nodded dumbly. 

“Why?’’ 

For a moment her lips moved, but no words 
came from them. Then she threw out her hands 
with a cry. Father Kelly was right ; she must tell 
Bruce all. 

“I will tell you, Bruce,’’ she faltered. “Yes, 
yes, dear, I’ll — I’ll tell you everything. Only give 
me a moment, dear, for you — you know we’ve 
never had anything like this come between us 
before. I — I — thought we never could — I ” 

A sob strangled her, but she choked it back 
fiercely. No, she must not cry. She must fight 
this out — bring the light of reason back to those 
staring eyes that looked into hers from the tor- 
tured face. It was Bruce, her husband, the man 
she loved, her other self, and deep down in her 
heart she felt that she was battling for his love, 
his reason; perhaps his very life. 

The thought steadied her like a cool hand laid 
upon her own. She drew one deep breath. 

“It was Alice,” she said, clearly. “She came 
down here to meet that man !” 

“What man?” he flung back at her quickly. 
Evidently he was trying to trap her — he did not 
believe 

She fought back her desire to cry out at this 
merciless thrust; forced herself to answer stead- 
ily : “I don’t know, Bruce.” 

The look he gave her reeked with distrust. He 
went to the door leading to the stairway and 
threw it wide open. “Call your sister,” he said, 
curtly. 


2or 


The Throb of Tragedy 

Bewildered, she took a step toward him, and 
her mind went back to the ’phone message she 
had received. 

A mist gathered before her eyes, then seemed 
to dissolve slowly. She saw her sister lying 
upon a cot; doctors, nurses bending over her. 
Vaguely she looked down at the street dress 
she wore. Yes, she had put it on to go to Alice — 
she should be going to the train now — she 

Her husband’s voice rasped sharply on her 
taut nerves. '‘Call your sister. She can settle this 
matter. Alice can ” 

“Alice isn’t here,” faltered Vera. 

He closed the door and looked at her. “Gone ?” 

She nodded. The pain in her heart was al- 
most unbearable. 

“When?” 

“Last night, Bruce; after — after she saw that 
man.” 

“Then you do admit that there was a man in 
this room ?” 

“Yes ; I haven’t denied it, have I, dear?” 

Bruce waved this admission aside. “Have you 
heard from your sister?” 

“Yes; she — ^she was knocked senseless by an 
automobile in the city; taken to Bellevue Hos- 
pital.” 

“When did you know of this ?” 

“Only — only a few minutes ago.” 

He paced the room swiftly for a moment and 
she followed him with yearning eyes. 

Then he faced her again and his tone was flint. 
“Why should your sister meet a man here?” 

“I don’t know, dear !” And then all the storm 


208 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

of emotion that she had fought to keep back burst 
its barriers. 

She put out her hands to him; grasped his 
hands; clung to them; held them as she im- 
plored: “Bruce, take me in your arms; trust 
me; believe in me, dear. I love you — just 
you — and — and it’s the anniversary of our mar- 
riage — the day I became yours — the day we — we 
said for — for better — for worse — till — till death 
do us part. I haven’t forgotten that. I — I never 
shall — till death do us part ! God — you shan’t put 
me away from you — you shall believe in me. Take 
me in your arms !” 

With a face like raw steel he looked down at 
her — and the anguish in her tone made him 
waver for a moment ; and then he shook his head. 

“I can’t!” he said in a tone men use when the 
wound is deep and mortal. cant! I can’t!” 

The hands she clung to slipped from her. She 
staggered and gripped the table. 

Defeat faced her, but she fought it back. Not 
yet — no — not yet, she told herself. While she 
could move she would struggle for her husband 
ahd her happiness. 

“You doubt me, Bruce?” Half unconsciously 
she seemed to speak the words. 

“Yes !” His reply came like a flash. There 
was no masking now. 

She gave a cry and put her hands over her 
eyes. 

“How could any man help it ?” he went on. “I 
wake in the night. You are gone. I come down 
those stairs ; a man left his room. Who was he?” 

“I don’t know, Bruce ; I don’t know !” 



“Bruce, take me in your arms” 


209 


The Throb of Tragedy 

^*You must; you must know!” 

‘‘But I don't!” She came to him, and kneeling 
in the chair he was leaning upon, put both her 
arms about his neck. He put up his hand to 
break her clasp, but she held him in spite of his 
efforts. 

“Bruce, Bruce, listen to me! Yes — ^yes, you 
must! I love you — love you! There never was 
anyone else in my life — there never was — there 
never can be anyone but just you. I love you, 
dear, love you. Hold me close to you; help me. 
You are suffering, and it kills me to see you suf- 
fer — because I love you, dear, love you !” 

“You love me,” he threw at her, “but you won't 
speak! You love me, but you won’t explain!” 

“I can’t, dear ; I don’t know. I — I ” 

Groping in the maze about them both, her mind 
seized upon a sudden idea ; an inspiration, for her 
hand resting upon the table had touched the 
’phone. Alice — yes; that was it. 

With a cry of joy she tore the receiver from its 
hook and spoke : “Central — yes — give me Belle- 
vue Hospital quick. It’s Mrs. Wilton. You 
know the number. Yes, don’t delay. Please 
hurry !” 

She turned to Bruce, who was pacing the room. 
“Wait, dear, only be patient a moment. Alice 
will tell you who the man was — why he came 
here, and that he came to see her.” 

Bruce paused and looked at her. “Why should 
a man come here unless to see you? Alice is a 
stranger.” 

“Wait,” she persisted, and turned to the ’phone 
as a voice called her. “Yes. Is that you, Mr. 


210 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

O'Hara. Yes, this is Mrs. Wilton. Can I speak 
to my sister Alice — Miss Marsh? What? I 
can! It — it won’t hurt her? No? Then please 
connect me — it’s important.” 

She paused and listened, every nerve in her 
strained to the breaking point. Then a feeble 
voice, her sister’s, thrilled over the wire. 

*‘Vera, is — that — you?” The tone was hardly 
audible. 

“Yes, dear ; I’m so sorry !” 

«Vera ” 

“Don’t try to talk, Alice,” Vera said, hastily. 
“Just listen to me. I want you to speak to Bruce ; 
just a word. For God’s sake, tell him who that 
man was who came here last night ; and tell him 
why he came I Oh, my darling, if you love me, 
tell him all. Yes, Bruce is here.” 

She turned and handed the receiver to her hus- 
band, and her eyes were bright; there was color 
in her cheeks, hope in her heart. She had found 
the way at last. 

“Bruce,” she said, softly, “you’ve heard every 
word I’ve said to Alice. You know there can’t 
be any collusion between us. Now speak to Alice 
and she will tell you everything.” 

He took the instrument in his hand and placed 
it to his ear. When he spoke his voice had a 
calmer tone. “This is Bruce, Alice. I’m sorry 
you’re hurt. Will you tell me about last night?” 

As he listened, disjointed fragments of bro- 
ken sentences came feebly over the wire, as 
though the one at the other end was making a 
supreme effort. 

He could only distinguish: “Met him — sur- 


211 


The Throb of Tragedy 

prised — talked — must tell — no one. Go in town — 
come — later — then — I — I — came— Klown to 

Bruce broke in hurriedly, for the voice was 
growing weaker. “Yes, yes; I know you came 
down to my study. But who was the man in this 
room 

“Why — he — ^he came over the wire. 

“Did he come here to meet you? Tell me his 
name !” 

“It was — was ’’ Then silence, except the 

vague, sibilant whispering of the current. 

“Well, well!’^ cried Vera, nervously. 

Bruce shook his head. “She began to say some- 
thing,’" he said. “But now ” he paused a mo- 

ment and listened. “Now there^s only a confused 
murmur of voices, and ” 

She took the ’phone from him quickly. “Please 
let me. Central,” she called through it. “Did you 

cut me off? I ” Her eyes dilated, for clear 

and sharp came a voice along the wire, 

“Is Mrs. Wilton there?” 

“Yes,” she replied, and listened. Her eyes 
widened, a stony calm came over her face. Quiet- 
ly she put the 'phone down and leaned upon the 
table. 

Bruce took a step toward her, and his voice 
showed that all the old doubts were back in his 
mind. “Why didn’t Alice speak to me — why 
didn’t she tell me ” 

Her look checked him. There was something 
in her face he had never seen there before. 

“Alice is dead!” 

In the pause he could hear the ticking of the 
clock and the gentle drip, drip, drip of the rain 
from the eaves. 


^12 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

''My sister,” Vera went on, calmly, stonily; 
"dead there among strangers ; my own, dear sis- 
ter, dead and — and I wasn’t by her side, to hold 
her hand, kiss her for the last time.” With a cry 
she put out her hands to him, groping for him, 
and her voice called to him in her agony of grief. 
"Don’t doubt me now, dear, not now. Let me 
cry my anguish out in your arms. I — I want my 
husband’s love.” 

And Bruce caught her to him as she staggered 
blindly ; caught her and held her. 

The ’phone bell rang. 

Vera raised her head and looked up at Bruce. 

It rang again, insistently. 

With a gesture to her, he went to the table 
and took up the receiver. "Well?” he called. 

"Mr. Wilton. Get him — get him quick — 
for ” 

"This is Wilton at the ’phone.” 

"Thank God ! Been trying, to get you ** 

"Is that you, Evarts?” he asked. "Yes, well, 
go on — ^keep your head, man. I can’t understand 
you. Now, tell me.” 

Tingling with the nervous tension of the mo- 
ment, Vera moved toward him. "What is it, 
Bruce; tell me ” 

He was listening excitedly to the words that 
the wire brought him. A grayish pallor came 
slowly over his face. There was no tremor in his 
voice as he said : "Wait ! Hold the line ! Tell me 
the particulars when I speak again ; tell them ex- 
actly!” His hand dropped to his side, and his 
eyes came up to meet Vera’s. There was a look 
in them that made her heart stop beating. 


213 


The Throb of Tragedy 

“Tell me, Bruce dear,” she cried, wildly. 

“Wait,” and he seemed to articulate with diffi- 
culty; his hand tore his collar loose, and she 
could see the cords stand out upon his bared neck. 
“Wait. You won’t tell me why you came down 
here last night to meet that unknown man !” 

A cry of agony burst from her. So they were 
back — back again on the same old endless trail of 
doubt — despair. “I did not! I did not! I did 
not!” Her voice was hoarse and strident in its 
agony — her hands beat vainly at the empty air. 

“You did, and I’ll tell you why.” He drew a 
deep breath and his eyes were steel points of light 
“That man was my secret enemy who has been 
fighting me for months past in Wall Street !” 

“No, no, no, Bruce !” was all she could say. 

“You were the only one on earth who knew 
exactly my plan today. You questioned me, drew 
it from me; made me tell you last night, and — 
and then while I slept you came down those 
stairs, met that man and told him ; told him every- 
thing ” 

“No, Bruce, no; on my soul, as I hope for 
mercy — why — I — I 

His hand caught her by the shoulder and he 
forced her into a chair. With one hand he held 
the receiver to her ear, and spoke into the ’phone. 
“Now,” he said, sharply, “go on, Evarts, tell me.” 

The trembling tone of his manager came to 
them both, for Bruce listened at the transmitter. 

“I carried out your orders exactly, Mr. Wilton. 
They were, ‘Sell Iowa Central in ten thousand 
lots until it is forced down to 50.’ I did that and 
then when your stock was sold I went on, as you 
ordered: ‘Sell short, if you have to, but force 


214 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


Iowa Central to 50.’ Someone began to buy 
at 55. I don't know who it was, but someone 
who knew, and it went up. I couldn't stem the 
bull market. It's going up now. Listen : I. C. — 
I'm reading the tape — 1 . C., 65, 68, 70, 80, 100. 
You're short thirty thousand shares, and you 
haven’t a single one to deliver. God ! Mr. Wil- 
ton! I’m sorry — I " 

Vera gave a cry and started to her feet, both 
hands pressed tightly over her ears. “Stop it!” 
she cried in agony ; “stop it !” 

He caught the receiver as it fell from her shak- 
ing hand, and laughed. 

“Wait — wait,” he cried ; “hear the finish. Iowa 
Central 105, 107, no. No one knew but you, 
and the man you told ; and you've ruined me.” 

Her hands gripped his shoulder. “Don’t stand 
here; do something — do something!” 

Roughly he shook her off and his hand brushed 
table, 'phone, chair out of the way, as he faced 
her. “You planned it. All your words of love 
to me, all your caresses, were lies. Another man 
owns you. Go to him — go now! But — by 
God, not with that rosary about your neck. It is 
the symbol of purity ; take it off — give it to me !” 

His hand caught the emblem and the cord 
broke ; the shining pearls were scattered upon the 
floor. Madness was in his eyes. She screamed 
as she saw a revolver flash from his pocket to his 
hand. 

“Bruce !” she cried, and seized it ; “not that — in 
God's name — no!” 

He shook her off so roughly that she staggered 
back. 


•4 


4 



• I 






and the cross upon the Rosary 







215 


The Throb of Tragedy 

“Yes, this, — it’s all that’s left me. Ruin has 
come, ril end it all. Your God has deserted 
me!” 

Father Kelly parted the curtains at the arch. 
He raised his hand in entreaty. “Bruce!” he 
cried. 

But the crazed man lifted the weapon to his 
temple. 

Vera put out her hands blindly, and they 
touched the drawn curtains at the window. Then, 
in one breathless space, she felt the answer to her 
prayer for help — it was there under her hand. 

“Bruce !” she cried, and tore the curtains from 
their fastenings. 

Behind them, in a golden frame, was a picture 
of the Christ in a harmony of glass. So true was 
the artist’s work that it seemed as though a living 
being stood there, with hands extended, a look of 
entreaty on the spiritual face. 

“No,” said the priest, solemnly. “God speaks 
to you now through his only Son, and the cross 
upon the rosary.” 

Sunbeams stole into the room. They lighted 
the picture softly. Birds began to sing. 

Bruce dropped the revolver and put his hands 
before his face; then with a cry he rushed 
through the open window. 

Vera tried to follow him, but a great wall 
of blackness seemed to rise before her. She felt 
herself falling — through immeasurable depths. 

Father Kelly caught her and placed her gently 
on a couch. He stood over her, his face uplifted 
and the sunlight fell full upon him. 

“Father,” he said softly. “Give me the power 
to bring them back to love and to Thee !” 


216 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER XVII 

“The Moving Finger Writes" 

HE stout man with the expansive chest 
and the rather clamorous Spring suit. 



halted his motor at the intersection of 
Broadway and Wall Street. With some laughing 
difficulty, he deposited his genial and ample bulk 
on the curb, and waved his hand to his driver. 

“Right, Sam," he said, jovially ; “walk the rest 
of the way to my office." 

The colored driver smiled and ducked his head, 
and the car, rather gaudy in its decorations, made 
a slow turn and shot uptown. 

Alone on the comer the rotund man looked 
after him and shook his head. 

“Respectable to look at," he said, “but a joy 
rider at heart. I beg pardon 1" as he came in 
abrupt contact with a hurrying pedestrian. 

The party to this collision also muttered an 
apology, then changed it to a phrase of recogni- 
tion. “Isn’t this Major Thomas?" he asked. 

“Yes, of course; and you — well, by all the 
strange gods of Manhattan, if it isn’t Evarts I" 

The other nodded, and the stout man noticed 
that he seemed a little ill at ease. He linked his 
arm through Evarts’ and began a voluble mono- 
logue. 

“Good to see ypu, Evarts. Only got back yes- 
terday; Brazil — rubber, and if you make the 
usual joke about it. I’ll push you into the street." 


“The Moving Finger Writes” 


217 


It was ten o’clock of a fine July morning, and 
the sidewalk was thronged. Major Thomas tried 
to keep up his conversation and, at the same time, 
steer his bulk through the crowd, but the narrow- 
ness of the way and the haste of the throng made 
this a feat of some difficulty. 

Finally he paused before the ornate front of a 
cafe and mopped his glowing face. 

“Say,” and he smiled jovially at Evarts. “I can’t 
chauffeur this two hundred and thirty chassis of 
mine and chin too, so let’s drop in here through 
the swing, doors, and recall that chaste remark 
made by the governor of a southern state to an- 
other governor of another state just a few de- 
grees more southern ; what ?” and drowning any 
remonstrance from his companion with a laugh, 
he drew him gently through the green baize doors 
and up to the bar. 

“Pete,” he called genially to the be-aproned 
alert young man behind the bar, who greeted him 
effusively. “Pete, here’s a friend of mine and 
he’s suffering; ask him what’ll help him quick- 
est?” 

The attendant turned to Evarts and his friend 
went on ; “If he says mineral water, Pete, don’t 
listen.” 

“A lemonade,” ventured Evarts, smiling in a 
half questioning way at his big friend. 

Thomas considered the order for a moment as 
though it were a question of international impor- 
tance. 

“Well,” he decided, finally, “it’s a matter be- 
tween you and your conscience. Pete, mix me 
one of those things that makes a Kentucky gentle- 


218 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

man long for home and mother,” and his laugh 
made the glasses dance. 

'‘Brazil,” he went on, in answer to Evarts' 
question; “Oh, yes, I was telling you about old 
Braz — when that red headed mullet of a mes- 
senger boy knocked the wind out of me. 
Well, Brazil’s all right, and rubber; always 
leads in the stretch — see!” He laughed again, 
and then his voice grew grave. “You know, 
Evarts, I got caught in Iowa Central about 
a year ago, and I had to do something to take 
the crimp out of my bank roll.” 

He paused and then looked at Evarts with a 
sudden recollection. “Why, you — ^weren’t you 
mixed up in it, too?” 

Evarts smiled. “Yes, all I had saved went, 

and Well that didn’t matter so much, 

Major; we who play the game down here, who 
have grown grey hanging over the tape — we — 
well, we look upon the ups and downs as the for- 
tunes of war. No — I didn’t care so much about 
myself. It was what happened to a friend of 
mine.” He paused and shook his head slowly. 

Thomas nodded. “Went under, eh? Well, 
never mind ; he’ll come back at the market.” 

“I’m afraid not,” and Evarts looked down de- 
spondently. 

“Well,” laughed his friend, “grab that high 
glass before you, and you’ll see things differ- 
ently. Ah, I forgot, yours was — lemonade ; well 
that makes a difference,” and with another laugh 
he buried his expansive face in the mint that 
odorously covered the tinkling ice in his glass. 

Evarts smiled and sipped at his lemonade. 


“The Moving Finger Writes” 


219 


‘‘Fine, Pete,” commented Thomas to the young 
man behind the bar, who smiled his appreciation 
of the compliment. Then he turned to Evarts 
again, and his forehead drew into knots of intro- 
spection. 

“Funny thing, that Iowa Central deal, old man. 
Ever find out what made the stock do that Wright 
brothers act? You know — fly — up — up — see?” 
He smiled at what he felt was a good joke. 

“No,” replied Evarts, slowly. “No one knows 
to this day ; it’s a Wall Street secret that has been 
kept faithfully.” He paused and struck his 
clenched fist on the bar. “But I know this : who- 
ever it was acted on inside information, and 
bought with one idea — to ruin Bruce Wilton! 
Why ” 

He stopped abruptly, and Thomas, following 
his intent gaze, saw that the curtains had parted 
before one of the spaces partitioned off for 
greater privacy, and that a man stood there. 

About him was that indescribable air that clings 
to men who have given up the fight. Men who 
have gone down to the depths, and though they 
can see the blue sky above and hear the cheery 
voices in the battle going on above them, know 
that for them it is over, ended. 

His clothes hung to his stooped shoulders and 
emaciated frame; they were unpressed, wrinkled 
into baggy folds ; his hair was long and unkempt 
and his eyes showed deep hollows of suffering. 

“Someone called me, didn’t they, Pete?” he 
asked, hoarsely. 

The bartender nodded towards the two men, 
who were silently watching, and then, seeing 
something in the man’s eyes, started towards him. 

15 


220 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Evarts put out his hand and stayed him. 
spoke your name, Mr. Wilton,” he said, “but I 
didn’t know you were there, sir.” 

“Ah, it’s Evarts, eh? All right,” and Bruce 
held out his hand. 

His old manager took it with deference and 
affection. “You’re looking better today, Mr. 
Wilton,” he said, and then, recollecting, turned to 
his companion. “This is Mr. Wilton, Major 
Thomas, you’ve often heard me speak of him.” 

“Sure,” laughed the Major; “join us, Mr. Wil- 
ton,” and then he noticed that Evarts was shaking 
his head at him behind Wilton. 

“Brandy,” said Bruce, shortly, and rested his 
elbow wearily upon the bar. 

Pete put out the decanter, reluctantly the Major 
thought, and then he saw that Bruce filled his 
glass to the brim. He raised his brows slightly 
at Evarts, who smiled sadly. 

Bruce set down the decanter and raised his 
glass unsteadily. “Brandy,” he said, smiling a 
queer, crooked smile ; “brandy is the king. Drink 
four and your brain stops buzzing. You can’t 
think. That’s a blessing. Drink a dozen and 
you’ve got Morgan and Rockefeller distanced in 
the race for dollars.” 

“I was just talking,” said the Major, biting, 
off the end of a cigar and feeling for a match; 
“just talking Thanks, Pete, old pal. Talk- 
ing about that Iowa Central deal ” 

He struck the match to a flame and failed to see 
Pete’s warning gesture or hear Evarts’ warning 
exclamation. 

The mischief had been done. Bruce dashed 


“The Moving Finger Writes” 


2Z1 


the glass he held upon the tessellated floor and 
turned upon Major Thomas. “What do you 
know about Iowa Central? Do you know any- 
thing? If you do, let’s have it, quick. Well?” 

His wild staring eyes confronted the stout man, 
who stood amazed at this abrupt change. 

But the Major had not earned his title in a 
drawing room. He had been under fire ; had seen 
the sun rise from the deck of a filibuster. Friends 
had often complimented him on his nerve. 

He showed that he possessed that useful quak 
ity now, for he applied the blazing match to the 
end of his cigar, extinguished it and puffed 
calmly at his weed for a moment, but he never 
took his cold gray eyes from the blazing pair be- 
fore him. 

“Why, yes,” he remarked, casually, after a 
pause. “I was just asking Evarts if he knew the 
inside story of that deal.” 

“Do you know anything about it — do you?” 

Thomas shook his head. “If I did, Mr. Wilton, 
I wouldn’t be asking questions about it, would I, 
old man ?” 

“No, no ; of course not. But someone knows.” 

His voice rose righ and he clenched his hand 
and shook it above his head. Evarts laid his 
hand upon his arm, but he shook it off angrily 
and went on. 

“Somewhere in this world there’s a man walk- 
ing among men, laughing, happy, rich — a man, 
a devil, who brought me down to this; ruined 
my life, tore the heart out of me — left me a 
wreck — that’s what I am, a wreck.” 

The baize doors flew open and a tall, carefully 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

groomed man entered quickly and glanced hur- 
riedly about the room. 

Evarts caught him by the arm. “I’m glad you 
came, Mr. Wright,” he said, and nodded toward 
Bruce, who had dropped his head on his hands 
at the bar. 

“Bad again, eh?” Kenward said, calmly. He 
looked a trifle older. There were fine lines about 
his eyes and a suspicion of gray showed at his 
temples. “Bruce,” he said, touching him lightly 
with his tan gloved hand. 

“Ken, old boy.” Bruce raised his head and 
seized his friend’s hand. “Mr. Kenward Wright,” 
he introduced him to the Major, “and the best 
friend a man ever had. Will you have a drink, 
gentlemen ?” 

Kenward shook his head. “Not now, Bruce. 
Come, I want you to take a ride with me; my 
motor’s outside. Joe,” he signalled to the waiting 
driver, who came forward and took Bruce re- 
spectfully by the arm. 

The outburst had benumbed Bruce’s mind. He 
allowed himself to be led, muttering, through the 
door and into the tonneau of the smart car. 

Kenward turned to Evarts. “Sanitarium,” he 
explained briefly. “Only way. Doctor saw him 
yesterday. Diagnosis — verge of paranoia. Too 
bad; fine fellow.” 

They nodded sympathetically. Kenward bowed 
and opened the door. Oh, Evarts,” he said, “just 
a moment; you haven’t heard anything of Mrs. 
Wilton, have you?” 

« Evarts shook his head. “Nothing, Mr. Wright, 
and I’ve tried; I’m still trying.” 


“The Moving Finger Writes’" 223 

Kenward put his hand on his shoulder. “That’s 
right ; keep at it/’ he said. “Strange, she seems 
to have dropped out of life.” 

“Yes,” assented Evarts, and then, as Kenward 
started for the door, he put in a last word : “That 
priest, Father Kelly, has been around looking for 
Mr. Wilton.” 

Kenward paused with the door half open. 
“Did he see him ?” he asked. 

“No, Mr. Wright; I wish he had, but Mr. 
Wilton keeps away from him. Father Kelly 
explained to me that he wanted to see his friend 
regarding the dedication of that new chapel.” 

Kenward paused in the clipping of a cigar end 
and thought a moment. “Ah, yes; the Chapel 
of the Rosary,” he said, absently. “I remember, 
we talked about it that evening at Bruce’s about 
a year ago.” 

“Just a year ago,” Evarts broke in. “Tomor- 
row’s the eleventh of July. Just a year ago to- 
day Mr. Wilton called me into his office and 
showed me a rosary of wonderful pearls he had 
bought for his wife.” 

“What did Father Kelly say about the new 
chapel?” Kenward persisted. 

“Well, you know when the crash came, Fa- 
ther Kelly wanted Mr. Wilton to take the monej 
he had laid aside for the building and use O', 
but Mr. Wilton couldn’t be found. He had just 
dropped out of things. I never did know where 
he was for six months.” 

“Panama, Nicaragua, South America,” sup- 
plied Kenward. “Bruce told me; fought in two 
of their biennial revolutions ; got the fever 
and ” he finished with an expressive gesture. 


S34 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

'"So there was nothing for the trustees to do 
but go on with the chapel, according to Mr. Wil- 
ton’s deed of gift." 

‘It’s finished, the chapel, I mean?” asked Ken- 
ward, watching through the half open door, the 
crumpled up figure of Bruce in the tonneau of his 
car. 

Evarts nodded slowly. “And that’s why Father 
Kelly called. The dedication is tomorrow. I 
think he hoped Mr. Wilton might come to it.” 

“Better not, I think.” Kenward shook his 
head and lighted the cigar between his teeth. 
“Well, so long, Evarts. Pardon, Major, just 

going over matters about ” he nodded toward 

Bruce in his car. “Glad to have met you.” 

The doors closed on him, and they heard the 
whirr of the motor rise to a sharp crescendo, then 
die away as the car carried them toward Broad- 
way. 

No one spoke for a few minutes. Pete paused 
in his work of polishing the mahogany surface 
before him. 

Major Thomas leaned thoughtfully over the 
bar, drawing queer geometric figures on its shin- 
ing surface with the bottom of his empty glass. 

Evarts came slowly towards them, his head 
down, his bony hands locked behind his back, 
pondering deeply. 

The roar of the street came to them, subdued 
to a deep, almost musical tone, an accompaniment 
to their thoughts. So still it was in the room that 
the tinkling drip of a leaking water pipe could 
be heard plainly; over a little pool of spilled 
brandy on the floor a bibulous blue bottle fly 
buzzed thirstily. 


“The Moving Finger Writes” 225 

Major Thomas jerked his head toward the 
door. “Down and Out Club for his/’ he said, 
slowly. 

“Don’t, Major!” Evarts put up his hand 
quickly. 

“Truth,” replied his bulky friend. “He’s on 
his way. Fill ’em up again, Pete.” 

The man thus summarily disposed of sat up a 
little straighter on the broad leather seat in the 
car. A breeze from the harbor, laden with the 
tang of the sea, brought a lingering trace of color 
to his sallow face. 

“We lay there in the jungle,” he said, slowly, 
as if something in the air had touched a 
chord of memory which sprang into words. 
“Lay there all day ; hotter than the Hades 
they describe from their pulpits,” he laughed, 
harshly. “Toward nightfall the wind shifted and 
blew from the sea. We crept down on them; 
some two hundred of us. My company, ragged, 
shoeless, fever ridden — shaking hands and yellow 
blotched faces. Then, crash went our volley, and 
we were on them.” He paused and smiled crook- 
edly. “Funny though, through all that blare of 
bugles and yells, the rattle of rifles and the 
smoke, I saw — saw Vera’s face.” His eyes 
widened at the memory of it. 

Kenward took him almost roughly by the arm. 
“Where is she?” he asked; and then softly: 
“Where is Vera; do you know?” 

“There, right ahead of us !” His eyes stared 
and a smile came over his pain racked face. 
“Waiting, in the little arbor, to serve tea, and put 
her arms about my neck and lay her soft cheek to 


226 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


mine; then I’ll give her this rosary I’ve bought 

for her ” His hand fumbled at his breast 

pocket. He caught Kenward’s eye. 

With a snarl he threw his friend’s hand from 
him, and drew away to the comer of the tonneau. 
“Let me alone, can’t you! I — I want to sleep, 
and — and forget.” 

He drew his coat collar up about his face and 
closed his eyes wearily. Kenward looked at him 
and shook his head sadly. The car rolled on 
and on. 

At the intersection of a busy thoroughfare, the 
driver reduced his pace to a mere crawl, to 
allow a stream of pedestrians to cross from one 
side to the other. 

Among them was a slender woman in a faded 
black gown, a veil drawn over her face. 

Half way across she paused, at a warning ex- 
clamation from the officer on duty there. She 
raised her head, and her eyes behind her veil 
took in the luxurious car and its occupants. 

The bundle dropped from her hands — the car 
went swiftly uptown towards Westchester. 

“Narrow shave that for you, ma’am,” said the 
policeman, not unkindly. 

She nodded ; her eyes were fixed upon the rap- 
idly receding auto. 

He stooped and recovered the bundle, dusted it 
clumsily and held it out to her. Then he saw the 
direction of her gaze; that she was not looking 
at him. 

He touched her on the arm. Something about 
her made this surly guardian of the law strangely 
tender. 


To the Chapel of the Rosary 227 ‘ 

With a quick start she turned, took it from his 
hands and nodded. 

“Thank you, officer.’" 

He noted that her voice was soft and low. 

“Oh, that’s all right,” he said, a little awk- 
wardly. Then he saw that she had turned and 
was gazing in the direction the car had taken. 

“Friends of yours?” he ventured, tentatively. 

She bowed, then looked about her in a strange, 
dazed way and melted into the crowd. 

It was July 10, and the hour was one o’clock. 


228 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


CHAPTER XVIII 
To THE Chapel of the Rosary 
HE brown haired woman, sewing swiftly at 



the kitchen table, looked up from her work. 


**■ Behind the newspaper on the opposite side, 
the man, square jawed, muscular, with sharp eyes 
and hair streaked with gray, surveyed her toler- 


antly. 


“Got something on your mind, Lou?” he in- 
quired. 

She nodded, but threaded her needle carefully 
before she spoke. “How did you know, Jim ?” 

“Oh, I know you,” he laughed, and turned his 
paper. “Well,” he added, after a pause, “what 
new bug has stung you now ; give it a name.” 
He struck a match and surveyed her grinning be- 
hind its flame, as he held it to his short clay pipe. 

“Jim, IVe a good mind to go down and speak 
to her.” 

“Well, why don’t you; no rope holding you, is 
there?” 

“How do you know who I mean?” 

“Lord!” He allowed the newspaper to fall 
upon his knees and chuckled softly as he studied 
her affectionately. 

She was worth more than a passing look. 
There was strength and purpose in her plain 
face. The eyes were alive with spirit and good 
nature. Her figure, not overtall, was clean cut, 
and though feminine in its soft curves, showed, as 
she moved, athletic power. 


To the Chapel of the Rosary 229 

She smiled back at him and patted his big hand 
as it lay carelessly on the table. 

“How?” she repeated, leaning forward, her 
elbows on her knees. 

He puffed and ruminated for a moment, hold- 
ing her hard hand very gently in his. 

“As if Fd heard anything but Her since you 
took the notion to sew in Bernstein’s shop,” he 
said. “Though I never saw her close to, I could 
give a picture of her.” 

His voice rose to a higher pitch, in what 
he fondly imagined was her feminine tone. “ ‘Oh, 
Jim, she’s that sweet and beautiful, you 
can’t imagine. Just to look at her is to think 
of pansies, and roses, and lilies of the valley. 
Hazel eyes, kind of brownish, and about my size, 
maybe a little taller; little hands and tiny feet, 
and her hair fine spun gold, and all her own, 

and ’ ” He broke off, with a laugh. “Say, 

ain’t I the real kid with the photographic eye, 
eh?” 

She threw his hand from her smiling. “Rats, 
I don’t talk like that, Jim!” 

“Well, that’s what you said ; and every day iFs 
been something new. “ ‘She looked awful pale 
today, Jim,’ or ‘Oh, Jim, I know she’s been cry- 
ing,’ or ” 

“Don’t joke about her, Jim,” she put in im- 
patiently. “She’s in trouble, somehow, I can 
tell.” 

“You mean ” An expressive gesture com- 

pleted the sentence. Trouble to him meant only 
one thing. 

“No, no!” she shook her head. “Not that. 


230 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Can’t you imagine anything worrying a man or 
woman but the police ?” 

'That’s enough to keep you up nights some- 
times.” He shook his head, reminiscently. "Re- 
member when we used to be — wanted? Oh, say, I 
meet up the other day with Detective Nailer; did 
I tell you? No? Well, I ran right into him. 
'Hello, Nitro,’ says he, 'going straight, they tell 
me. Say, is it just a plant, or is it on the level?’ 
'Level,’ I says, looking him straight in the eye. 
'You could back me up to a safe now,’ I says, 'put 
n^tro in my hand, just leave me there and go 
home to bed without worrying about your 
money.’ ” He smoked a moment, thoughtfully. 
"Somehow, he seemed disappointed. You know, 
I believe the cops hate to see a crook turn 
square.” 

After a pause he looked up and added : "You 
ain’t heard a word I’ve been saying, have you?” 

She shook her head, "I’m worried about her, 
Jim.” 

"Lord, go down and see her and get it over.” 

The woman rose and threw down the garment 
on which she had been working, and took a hesi- 
tating step toward the shabby pine door. 

"Go on,” he urged. "Why don’t you go down 
and see her, if you want to do it?” 

"I don’t know, Jim ; only — wel!, she’s different 
from the rest of us, somehow. She’s a lady. A 

real lady, and — and — well, I ” She looked 

down at her own plain dress and held up her 
rough, red hands. 

"I guess my wife is there some, too, with that 
lady stuff,” he put in, belligerently, doubling up a 


To the Chapel of the Rosary 331 

professional looking fist. “Leastways it wouldn’t 
be real healthy for some guy to come in here and 
say she wasn’t.” 

* Her arms flew about his powerful neck, and she 
hugged his gray head closely to her breast. 
“You’re all right, Jim,” she faltered. “But ” 

“Are you crying, Lou?” he asked, after a 
pause, releasing himself and turning to her in his 
chair. “Why, I never saw you cry but once, 
and that was when I was sent up for ” 

“Don’t, Jim,” she broke in, impatiently, dash- 
ing her hand across her eyes. “You’re making it 
harder for me to go down to her every minute. 
Why, think of it. I to go" down there after all 

I’ve been. I, who used to be No, no, I 

couldn’t; I just couldn’t.” 

“Well, then, I wouldn’t, if I felt that way,” he 
said. “I’d pass it up.” 

“No, I’m going, Jim,” and the door closed on 
her. 

Jim looked after her and listened a moment to 
the sound of her quick, energetic step in the hall- 
way descending the uncarpeted stairs. Then he 
whistled reflectively and looked about him, smil- 
ing, for a match. 

“Can you beat ’em?” he asked of no one in par- 
ticular, as he resumed his study of the critical 
baseball situation. “Can — you — beat ’em? No, 
you can’t.” 

****** 

The slight, girlish figure watching the little tea- 
kettle come to a boil over the oil stove, turned 
with a start as a knock sounded on the pine door 
of her cramped, hall room. 


232 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

“Come in,” she said, softly, and a little breath- 
lessly, for who could be coming to pay her a call ? 

Lou opened the door timidly and there was a 
moment’s awkward pause. 

“I came down,” she began, “because— well, I 
just had to come. I ” she stopped, confused. 

“Fm very glad you did.” The voice was very 
soft and modulated. “Won’t you sit down. Fm 
just brewing some tea, and perhaps you’d like 
a cup.” 

Lou nodded and sat down a little stiffly. The 
refined accent, the gentle tone and the acceptation 
of her abrupt visit confirmed the opinion she had 
given Jim upstairs. 

“A lady ; a real lady,” she thought to herself. 
And then her feminine eyes asserted their tradi- 
tional rights and swept the room with one all 
comprehending look. 

It was narrow, cramped, confined. The single 
cot bed occupied a third of the restricted space. 
One window, a painted wooden bureau near it, a 
tiny table, one chair, a trunk, washstand in the 
corner, with its hideous shape of bowl and 
pitcher. The oil stove rested on a diminutive 
packing box. 

One scant half minute’s pause this inventory 
took and then the small details were gathered by 
her keen eyes. Everything spotless; a few well 
thumbed books on the table. Two small framed 
pictures, attractive and well hung ; a steamer rug 
covering the couch, and, yes, soft white muslin 
curtains over the window. 

Exact time consumed in this complete and 
carefully catalogued survey, which included every 


233 


To the Chapel of the Rosary 

small item of the loose clinging house dress and 
the plain gold ring upon the slender finger ; exact 
and authentic time one minute. 

“Can you beat ’em?” Jim was asking upstairs 
at this moment. “Can you beat ’em ?” 

^ “Tea,” repeated Lou, mendaciously. “Now 
ain’t that funny. I was just saying to Jim up in 
our room, how I’d like a cup of tea.” 

She took the cup from the delicate hand that 
offered it and was glad to see a smile on the pale, 
sweet face. 

“Jim?” The inflexion of the tone was ques- 
tioning. 

“My husband,” a little proudly. Then she 
nodded her head, “and all right, too.” She looked 
at her hostess’ slim hand. “You’re married ?” 

A look of pain came into the hazel eyes. 

Lou saw it and changed the subject with a dart 
of anger towards herself. 

“Great tea, Mrs. ” She paused a moment, 

hesitatingly. 

“Weldon,” came the answer, very softly. 

The woman sipped her tea a moment before 
she went on. “Perhaps you’ll think it strange, 
Mrs. Weldon, my coming down here this way, but 
I just had to come — because — well. I’ve felt for 
days working beside you there that you needed a 
friend You know, I’m queer that way; some- 
how I sense things. Why, Jim used to say I 

could tell a detective ” She paused and broke 

off suddenly with a laugh. 

“There I go,” she went on, putting down her 
cup on the trunk. “Jim put it into my head, I 
guess, before I came down, talking about the po- 


234 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


4 


lice. Well, you might as well know, I s’pose; 
there ain’t any secret about it. Jim and I were 
crooks.” 

“Really?” Her listener bent forward, a look 
of interest on her face. 

“Sure; Jim blew safes and I — well, I helped 
Jim. Funny thing how we came to turn square. 
Like to hear about it ?” 

“Very, very much, and I’m so glad you — and 
Jim, is it? — did turn square. Tell me.” 

Lou saw that the girlish face had taken on 
some little color and that the look of pain had 
left the hazel eyes. 

“Fine,” she commented, mentally, to herself. 
“Get her mind off of what’s worrying her.” 

“Well,” she went on, “it was the strangest 
thing what turned us. Jim was — wanted. 
The police were looking for him, and we were 
under cover. I used to go out early after 
grub, but Jim — he kept dark. One morning I 
went for some milk.” She paused. “Early, sun 
wasn’t up, and I met a boy we helped once out in 
Chicago. Jim was framing up a big job. I knew 
this kid would come in handy, so I says, ‘Come 
up.’ Well, he looked at me and shook his head. 
T’ve turned square ; there’s nothing in this 

crooked game. You and Jim ’ ” She paused 

and her voice grew serious as she recalled the 
words that had meant so much to her. “ ‘You 
and Jim are fighting eighty millions of people Y ” 

“And you were,” broke in the gentle voice of 
her listener 

“Of course; but I didn’t know it. Neither did 
Jim. I went up those four flights mighty slow, 
thinking. 


To the Chapel of the Rosary 235 

“Jim was working on a new brace bit to drill 
holes in a safe. He looked up as I came in, and 
saw something in my face, I guess. 

“ ‘Cops ?' he asks, short and sharp. ‘No,' I 
says, putting down the milk slow and careful. 
‘No, Jim ; only we’re in wrong, you and I ; there’s 
nothing in this crooked game,’ I says. ‘You and 
I are fighting eighty millions of people.’ I wait- 
ed a minute to let that sink in, and I saw it did, 
for it hit him hard. His jaw kind of dropped. 
‘Now,’ I says, ‘one word does it, Jim; which is 
it to be, right from this minute: straight or 
crooked ?’ He studied over it a minute, and then, 
all at once, a change came over his face. 

“He just heaved that new brace bit across the 
room. ‘Straight,’ he says, and he took me in 
his arms.” 

She paused, for two soft hands clasped hers 
and she saw that “the lady” had dropped down 
on the floor by her and was looking up into her 
face, eagerly. 

“Go on, please; you don’t know how much 
good this is doing me. It’s been so long since 
I’ve talked with anyone Oh, please go on !” 

“Well,” laughed Lou, “that’s about all. Jim 
squared it somehow and got a job. I got one, 
too. We went back to our real name, Markham. 
Jim went to work — watchman in an iron foundry. 

“‘I’ll begin there, Lou,’ he says, ‘because I’m 
some uncertain about myself in this straight 
game ; whether I can be on the level ; and I know 
I can’t steal that pig iron — it weighs a ton.’ ” 

They both laughed a moment at this ingenious 
thought of Jim’s; then “the lady” spoke softly: 

16 


230 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

"And you turned to a new life all because of that 
boy’s words ?” 

"Yes,” returned Lou. "He was a wonder, 
that kid. Happy go lucky, full of his jokes. 
Why, he told me that morning that the way he 
came to turn square was that he broke into a 
house, a priest’s house ” 

The soft hands tightened upon hers and she 
looked down to meet a wondering look in "the 
lady’s” face. 

"He broke into a priest’s house ” 

The lady had risen quickly and moved away 
from her a little. Her eyes were large and round 
with wonder, there was a smile on her face. "A 
priest’s house,” she repeated, slowly; "was his 
name, that boy’s name, Skeeter ?” 

"Yes, Mrs. Weldon, and ” 

"The priest was Father Kelly! Dear, dear. 
Father Kelly.” 

Lou nodded. "Skeeter went to work for a 
Wall Street man. Jim met him once. Then the 
man went broke and ” 

She paused and caught her breath sharply as 
she rose to her feet. 

Headlines in the yellow journals came back to 
her: "Broker Goes Down In Crash.” Panic in 
I. C. Ruins Bruce Wilton.” "Wife of Ruined 
Broker Missing.” 

She took a step forward for "the lady” seemed 
swaying. A question rose to her lips, looked out 
from her eyes. "Then you ” 

"Yes,” the lady whispered. "Yes.” Then she 
turned a little away and went to the window. 

A hand fell on her shoulder — kindly, faithfully. 


To the Chapel of the Rosary 237 

‘‘You don’t want to talh?’^ 

The lady shook her head. 

‘‘Can I help you ?” 

The same negative gesture. 

“I won’t say a word, not even tc Jim ; yod can 
trust me.” 

Soft hands closed thankfully ov r hers. Lou 
went towards the door. Somethin} in the faded 
black dress laid out upon the couch stopped her. 
She ventured a question: “You’re not going 
away, Mrs, Weldonf' 

The lady smiled softly, “Just for tomorrow, 
early. Mr. Bernstein has given me a holiday. 
Don’t worry if I’m not in my place. Come down 
and see me in the evening.” - 

“I will, Mrs. Weldon, and, and — ^well, if there’s 
anything Jim or I can do, you can count on us. 
Good night.” 

There was a tender sympathy in the way Lou 
closed the door and went carefully up the bare 
stairs. 

The lady looked about her narrow room, and 
then she extinguished the lamp. She went to 
the window and her eyes gazed at the stars — 
as she knelt there. 

“Tomorrow!” she said, softly. “I’ll lie down 
now for a few hours, and then early — very early, 
long before the first faint streaks of dawn — I’ll 
go out — there; out to Westchester, and, and see 
my old home, and Father Kelly’s Chapel of the 
Rosary.” 

She dropped her head upon her folded hands 
and murmured in a whisper: “Bruce, my own, 
my own dear husband. God help you and bring 
you back to me!” 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

The street was very quiet, A few fleecy clouds 
swam in the deep blue of the sky — far in the dis- 
tance a city clock chimed on the Summer air. 

It was July 10 ; the hour was ten o’clock. 

4 : ***** * 

Luke McKelvin, outside guard at Dr. Wylie’s 
Westchester Sanitarium, came to his feet sud- 
denly from a bench by the lodge gate, and rubbed 
his eyes. 

He had dropped down there for a moment in 
his lonely tour of the grounds, and he felt un- 
easily that he had dozed in the gentle Summer 
night air. 

Yawning, he held his old silver watch to the 
light of the gate lamp and grinned sheepishly at 
wnat it told him. 

“Asleep,” he muttered. “Well, what do ye 
know about that? Asleep on picket duty. Ser- 
geant, take this man out and shoot him.” Luke 
had been a soldier in his time. 

Then he started on his half completed round of 
the institution. 

“I wonder,” he said, slowly, “if I dreamed it, 
or did someone come down that path on their 
tiptoes and try the gate.” It was locked now, at 
all events, as his hand told him. He shook his 
head and went on, with watchful eyes and wide 
open ears. 

All about him clung the July night, very soft, 
still, odorous with the scent of opening buds and 
bursting blossoms. Beyond the range of hills to 
the west the moon was just disappearing, her 
silver pathway free from any cloud in the aether. 
So still it was he could hear the gurgle of the 


To the Chapel of the Rosary 339 

little brook that crossed the gromids at the east- 
ern edge ; far off to the north a dog barked. 

Luke looked about him and nodded slowly, with 
appreciation. “Pretty,” he said, low, to himself. 
“No wonder a man drops off for forty winks on a 
night like this.” 

And then he paused and his eyes contracted. 
The shrubbery on his right was broken, as though 
someone, in desperate haste, had passed that way. 
He dropped on his knee and with a match exam- 
ined the soft earth. 

Yes, footprints — running — leading from the 

main hall to . He rose to his feet to get the 

exact direction — to that half repaired break in 
the wall. 

“Fourth window from the end,” he said as he 
ran swiftly toward the hall. “Second floor. He 
could get down that drain pipe all right I 
wasn't dreaming; tried the gate and then made 
for that break in the wall.” 

Quickly the night attendant physician aroused 
the doctor. 

“The new patient, Wilton, gone ?*' he said. 

“Call his friend, Mr. Wright,” replied the 
doctor, as he threw on his clothes. “Yes, he^s 
here; remained over for the night I thought it 
best — insisted. Glad I did now. Hurry and 
wake him, Maddox.” 

And while they prepared to take up the fugi- 
tive's trail, a man, in the darkness, was plunging 
straight on over hills, through meadows and 
streams, bareheaded, with straining eyes, looking 
out wildly from their sockets, torn by brambles 
and thick underbrush, staggering, reeling, gasp- 


iWd Father Kelly of the Rosary 

mg — ^hut still on and ever on, straight as the hawk 
flies, with that unerring instinct that always lives 
and directs the course; on and ever on, until 
breasting a hill, he saw below him the cool, white 
walls of a chapel 

Then, putting out his hands with an inarticu- 
late cry of joy, he staggered down the hill and 
fell forward on the marble steps, one hand 
stretched out toward the heavy, oaken doors, his 
face in the soft grass. 

It was July 10, and the hour was eleven o’clock. 

A single candle of purest wax, burning upon 
the altar, lighted the interior of the Chapel of 
the Rosary. By its dim light the shadowy out- 
lines of massive pillars, groined roof, the rows on 
rows of empty pews were seen. It was stately in 
its simple richness, beautiful in the harmony of 
outline and true proportions. There seemed writ- 
ten in its every corner — engraved upon each stone 
and frieze the invisible words: “Conceived and 
executed by Love.” 

Before the altar, with outstretched arms and 
clasped hands, knelt a man in the cassock of a 
priest. The slender rays of the wax taper lighted 
his face. It was thin, gaunt, drawn to sharp lines 
of spiritual effort and travail. His eyes were 
closed and his face raised to the vaulted ceiling, 
the lips were moving as he prayed. 

It was July the loth and the hour was mid- 
night 


In the Gray Dawn 


041 


CHAPTER XIX 
In the Gray Dawn 

K athleen had risen very early on the 
morning of July ii. She felt worried 
about Uncle Brian,' for as the time had 
gone by and the day of the dedication of the 
Chapel of the Rosary drew near, he had grown 
more and more silent. His manner was tender 
toward her, but she felt a vague aloofness about 
him, as though his mind dwelt upon unseen! 
things. 

It was not yet dawn when she stole to his 
room. The door stood wide open, and stepping, 
inside, she saw that the bed was undisturbed. 
She shook her head sadly, and went down the 
stairs and out through their little garden. Only 
across the way towered the new chapel. 

In the hush that always precedes the dawn of 
another day she picked her way up the little rise 
toward it. The edifice loomed large, placed as it 
was on a break in the hill. Its front fagade faced 
the east. 

Kathleen paused before it for a moment, and 
then, skirting its main portal, went toward the 
door of the sacristy, where she felt sure she 
would find her uncle. As she came toward it she 
gave a slight start, for a man stood there. She 
paused for a moment, undecided what she should 
do, and while she waited the man spoke. 

'T beg your pardon,^' he said, ‘‘but is this the 
Chapel of the Rosary?'* 


242 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


‘^Yes, sir/’ she replied slowly. Something in 
the tone of his voice stirred her memory 
strangely. “Yes, sir, it is to be dedicated at early 
mass today.” She drew her breath quickly, for, 
quite near him now, she had caught sight of his 
face and felt that she knew him. “Didn’t you 
work for Mr. Wilton a year ago, sir?” she asked. 

He looked at her a moment and then put out 
his hand. “Sure I did, and I remember you. 
Miss O’Connor. My name is Lee Martin. I’ve 
come to the dedication. Shake !” 

They gravely shook hands, and Kathleen went 
on: “You made me laugh that night, do you 
remember ?” 

Lee sighed. “Yes, Miss O’Connor, I was too 
fond of my jokes in those days. I’ve changed 
since then !” 

“You have, Mr. Martin?” 

He looked down at the sombre black suit he 
was wearing and shifted the battered umbrella 
to his other hand. “Don’t you notice the clothes 
I’ve got on ?” 

She nodded. Even in the uncertain light the 
alteration was apparent. “What changed you?” 
she asked. 

He smiled feebly. “What sends all of us fel- 
lows dotty ? A girl !” 

“Who,” she asked, her interest growing; “the 
one who worked there?” 

“Yes,” he nodded. “The original sober-faced. 
Bellows Falls, champion non-laugher, Lesura.” 

“Why !” she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide ; 
“she wasn’t exactly the kind I’d think that you 


243 


In the Gray Dawn 

"‘Neither would I, Miss O'Connor. That's 
what hands me an awful laugh when I think of 
it. But I tried so hard to make her laugh I got 
interested and " his expressive gesture fin- 

ished the sentence. 

“Do you expect to meet her here?" she asked. 

“Why not?" You know we were all to be here 
at the dedication. Mrs. Wilton made us promise 
that night." 

A train of recollection started in her mind. 
“What has become of — of — Mr. Harrow?" she 
asked. 

“Say," he replied, coming nearer, “it got you, 
too, didn't it?" 

She nodded and caught her breath in a little 
sob. “Yes, I — I — do love him — I’m not afraid 
to say so. Do you know where he is?" 

“No, Miss O’Connor, I don't. Something hit 
us all that night. Mr. Wilton gone to smash — 

and — ^and — Miss Vera " His voice broke 

and he turned sharply away. “Well, I’ll just go 
up the hill and look at the old place." 

The mist rising from the teeming earth swal- 
lowed his shorty athletic figure, and Kathleen 
turned to the sacristy door; and then through 
the early morning air she heard a clear, melodious 
whistle. She paused for a moment on the step. 
The refrain was an old Irish air /'The Enniskillen 
Dragoons.” She followed it for a moment, her 
hand beating time, a smile upon her lips. So in- 
tent was she upon the tune that she did not see 
the man who came towards her through the early 
morning mist, until a voice sounded close beside 
her. 


B44 Father Kell 7 of the Rosary 

“And howll that be after striking ye?*' it 
asked. 

Turning quickly, with a gasp, she looked in- 
tently at the tall form clad in Irish corduroys. 
Then she gave a little cry of delighted surprise 
and clasped her hands. “Charley!” she cried; 
“Charley Harrow!” 

He stepped away from her almost disdainfully, 
and took off his hat with a flourish. She noted 
that about it he wore a broad band of green 
ribbon. “Not Harrow. O’Harrow, if ye plaze.” 
There was the burr of old Erin in his manner of 
speech. 

A great light burst in on her; she clasped her 
hands. “That’s where you went — to ” 

“Back to Ireland — to the green shores of Erin 
Go-Bragh! For, sure, and didn’t ye say I wasn’t 
Irish enough for ye?” 

She nodded. 

“I made tracks for a steamer the day you said 
that. 'Take me to Ireland,’ I cried, and faith, 
they did. I searched, questioned, investigated, 
and do you know what I found ?” He threw out 
his chest proudly. “Me ancestor came from Bal~ 
lanahinch, in Roscommon County, near Mayeuth/* 

“Ye don’t tell me?” Kathleen cried in de- 
lighted surprise and joy, her face beaming. 

“It’s the truth. Didn’t ye ask me about Brian 
Boru?” 

“I did, and you made me angry by calling him 
a ball player.” 

He nodded and she saw that he wore a won- 
derful green tie. “I take shame to myself that I 
ever said those words, for I know him now — that 


245 


In the Gray Dawn 

mighty king who held Ireland in his hand, drove 
out the Danes, defeated them at Glenamoy in 
Wicklow in the year nine hundred and ninety- 
nine. He took a handkerchief of vivid green 
from his pocket, and she gasped: 

“Wonderful!” It was her tribute to this dis- 
play of historical accuracy. 

Charley flaunted the green handkerchief to- 
ward her; upon it was embroidered the likeness 
of a harp. “I’ve a small ancestor or two,” he 
said modestly, “who fought by his side that same 
day.” 

She made no reply to this. His news v/as 
overwhelming. 

“I’ve walked from Kinsale,' he went on, “that 
looks out on the salt sea, to Marvin Head; I’ve 
bathed in the Shannon’s sweet water ; walked up 
and down the Giant’s Causeway ; kissed the Blar- 
ney Stone ” 

“I knew that,” she cried, laughing, but there 
were tears in her eyes ; his devotion touched her. 

“And here” — he put his hand into the breast 
pocket of his coat and his voice was low and 
tender — “here’s a sprig of real shamrock that 
I picked from the mist-laden hills of old Erin.” 

Kathleen took the spray of green with a low 
cry of joy and pressed it to her lips. “The 
blessed shamrock,” she said. “Ah, Charley, think 
how it grows in that dear old land, and of the 
brave men who have watered it with their heart’s 
blood, giving up all — happiness, fortune, even 
life — for this tiny green blade and the honor of 
the old sod.” 

He came quite near her and asked the one ques- 


346 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

tion in his mind. ‘*Am I Irish enough for ye, 
acushla, gra machree?’' 

With a low laugh she turned. You’re a broth 
of a boy.” And then, as he looked at her silently, 
she added very softly : “My broth of a boy !” and 
he took her in his arms. 

And then they went up the hill together, just 
to become accustomed to their new found happi- 
ness and because newly engaged people, young 
and old, rich or poor, have whole volumes that 
must be said at once. 

In the darkness and the mist they passed Lee. 
He was walking with his head down, for he had 
just seen the deserted Wilton home and it had 
saddened him. Besides, he was revolving deeply 
another matter which it had taken him weeks to 
formulate exactly. “If she won’t have me one 
way,” he said, “perhaps the other’ll catch her.” 

He had halted in the roadway, nearly opposite 
the new chapel, under the single street lamp that 
the hill boasted. As he felt for his watch to see 
the time, someone spoke to him. 

“My good little man” — the voice was high and 
modulated in tone. He turned and an exclama- 
tion burst from him. 

“Bellows Falls,” he cried. 

The charmingly gowned lady who had spoken 
to him wore a large picture hat and in her hand 
was a gold lorgnette. As she raised it and 
studied him, Lee supplemented his first inven- 
tory: “Bellows Falls, Vermont, and she’s got 
them all on.” 

“Is that you, Mr. Martin ?” 

He nodded. The transformation of the awk- 


In the Gray Dawn 


247 


ward, slow-spoken country girl into this stylish 
woman had taken the power of speech from him 
momentarily. 

Then she came nearer and motioned him to a 
seat beside her on a little rustic bench, placed 
there by wise old country officials who had not 
forgotten their vanished youth. 

“You observe a change in me?” said Lesura. 

Lee shook his head. “No, it isn’t a change. 
Why, you’re a Fourth of July parade and a presi- 
dential torch light procession, both coming down 
the same street. Say, you hurt my eyes just to 
look at you.” 

“And of course you want ta know the reason,” 
Lesura went on. “Well, father made some 
money ; oh, a lot.” 

The old times came back to Lee and he won- 
dered if her appreciation of humor had developed 
with her change in dress and manner. He put 
up his hand. “One moment, please. Did anyone 
see father — when he made it ?” 

Lesura looked at him and shook her head. 
“Why, no.” 

He nodded and bent nearer. In a moment 
more, when he had led her craftily up to the joke 
he planned, he would know if she really could 
laugh. “That’s lucky for father,” he said, wag- 
ging his head wisely. 

“Why lucky, Mr. Martin?” 

Ah, she had asked the exact question to make 
everything complete. “Because, listen now; I 
had a friend once who made a lot of money ; yes, 
stacks, bales of it ; why he sat up nights making 
it — but — they saw him.'* 


248 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

He paused and surveyed her closely. Not a 
smile, not a ripple. No, she only stared blankly 
at him. Regretfully he turned to the phantom 
dog who, in his previous attempts on her sober 
face, had been his confidant. “Lie still. Rover,’' 
he said, sadly. “There’s nothing doing, nobody 
laughing.” 

“You are such an odd fellow, Mr. Martin”; 
and she tapped him gently on the arm. 

“I am,” he returned. “There aren’t any more 
clothes in the world like these I’m wearing ; that’s 
the reason I’m odd.” 

“So father sent me to school,” Lesura con- 
cluded; “and I’m finished.” 

“You certainly do look it,” he answered, and 
then, in sheer desperation, he went on rapidly: 
“But have you changed ? Are you still there with 
that joke-defying stuff; that non-bending face; 
that sheet-iron map, warranted not to crack if 
you hit it with a hammer ? Are you Greenland’s 
icy mountains ; are you ?” 

She stared at him a moment, then shook her 
head. “Now, don’t be naughty, Mr. Martin!” 

“Never,” he replied, and then he tried again. 
“Why, pa says ” 

“Pa who?” she asked innocently. 

He drew a deep breath and leaned nearer on 
the bench. “Pa-snip — parsnip,” he said clearly. 

No effect followed, and he started to leap from 
the bench, to run, far, far down the roadway — 
when, yes, a smile. Were his eyes deceiving 
him? No, the smile grew and grew, and with it 
he saw dimples forming in her cheeks that he 
had never suspected existed there. Still it grew 


In the Gray Dawn 249 

— grew to a chuckle — low, clear, but plainly a 
chuckle. It was a low laugh now, but a rising 
one. It filled and swayed the early morning air. 
Her eyes were pools of honest, hearty merriment. 

Lee rose from his seat and took off his black, 
flat-topped hat. "‘Bellows Falls wins,” he said 
judicially, and then added, “They taught you to 
laugh when they finished you !” 

“That’s very, very funny,” she said. 

And then something rose in Lee’s throat and 
held him fast. “Lesura, see the clothes I have 
on,” he said. “I dressed this way because I didn’t 
know that you’d changed, that you were finished ; 
but now — now I’m going to take a chance. How 
strong am I with you ? Could you, can you, give 
me your hand and say I do take thee, Lee — and 
— and mean it? Could you — oh, say, can you see 
by the dawn’s early light — no, no — what I want 
to say is, could you ?” He paused for breath and 
leaned down to his faithful imaginary dog. 
“Hold you breath,’ he said, “hold your breath, it 
will all be over soon.” 

Lesura scanned him for a long, long moment 
and then shook her head. “Lee,” she said, “I 
could never marry a man who dressed like that.” 

He looked down at the black, ill-fitting, bagg^’ 
suit. “You couldn’t?” 

“Never; you lack finish.” 

“Ah,’ he returned blithely, “you haven’t seen 
my finish yet. Here is where it happens.” 

He put his hands on the rail of the low fence 
that ran just behind the bench, vaulted it, and she 
herd him crashing in the dense shrubbery be- 
yond. 


250 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


Almost before her startled senses could recover 
sufficiently to ask what his strange action might 
mean, he was back standing before her, and she 
stared even as he had done when he first saw her. 
For the black suit was gone, and in its place a 
stylish walking suit of the latest cut and pattern 
clothed him ; on his head was a modish derby ; a 
single stone glittered in his scarf; a light cane 
made circles in his hand. 

“This is the finish,” he said airily, “and if iFll 
help any, Fm partner in an auto garage that pulls 
down fifty a week straight money. And so I am 
going — agoing. Anybody want me — going — go- 
ing 

“I want you,” she cried, and seized his arm 
with both her hands. 

“Gone! he cried joyfully. “Gone, and glad to 
go ! Come on, Rover !” and their voices blended 
in a laugh of pure happiness as they went down 
the hill together. 



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“At sunrise every soul is born again’’ 




The Voice from Above 


251 


CHAPTER XX 

The Voice from Above. 

I N the wet, rank grass that grew about the 
chapel steps, the man who had fallen there 
prone stirred feebly. The hand lying upon the 
lower step opened and closed, then he moaned. 

In the eastern sky were the faint, gray traces 
of the dawn. A breeze that was hardly more 
than a gentle breath, came over the top of the 
hill and filtered softly down its slope into the little 
vale beneath. It sent the mist scurrying before 
it, with ragged detachments clinging here and 
there to the hillside, as though making a last stand 
before its attack. The man lying by the chapel 
step moaned again. 

The sacristy door in the chapel’s western wing 
was drawn open sharply. Father Kelly stepped 
out into the steel gray light of the approaching 
day. 

“Kathleen,” he said in his quiet way, “was that 
you who called to me?” 

There was no answer save the gentle suspira- 
tion of the hilltop breeze. 

He came forward a little, his pale, drawn face 
raised to the lightening, sky. “Someone called 
me, I thought, or can it be only my fancy. Three 
days and three nights I’ve spent before the altar 
without bite or sup, praying for those I love, 

and now ” He folded his arms upon his 

breast and his haggard eyes looked over the little 

17 


262 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

duster of houses across the marshes and the 
river, even beyond the eastern hills, where the sky 
showed the mystery of the new day that would 
soon dawn. 

And then the priest’s eyes dilated and he took 
a step forward, for he saw a white hand extended 
nervelessly upon the chapel step. Just for one 
moment he paused, doubting if he really saw a 
hand, or if his faculties were not deceiving him, 
worn as he was with his fast and vigil. But while 
he gazed the long, gaunt fingers opened and 
closed convulsively, the hand moved feebly, and 
he knew someone was lying there. 

Yet he came towards the step slowly. Prayer 
and fasting, supplication and desire to aid the 
two people whom he loved had banished the phys- 
ical man. It was pure spirit that looked through 
his eyes and spoke with his voice ; his mind was 
alive, attuned to the unseen forces of the invisible 
world. And so, even before his eyes could make 
out clearly the form of the man lying there help- 
less, spent and alone, he — knew! 

He paused erect above the crumpled form and 
his eyes closed, a low, deep whisper came from 
his lips and a smile of perfect faith lighted his 
white face. 

“Father,” he breathed, “Father, I thank thee. 
Thou hast brought him back to me, sin-sick and 
weary, broken and bruised, through the very 
flames of the pit, here to the foot of thy holy 
altar.” 

He moved nearer and, with the gentleness of a 
mother, put his hand upon the man’s shoulder. 
“Bruce,” he said very gently. 


The Voice from Above 


26 a 


The man staggered to his feet and gazed about 
him. His reeling senses took in the hilltop, the 
village below, the river beyond, the towering spire 
of the chapel and the gold cross there, pointing 
heavenward. Dazed, weak, faltering, he took a 
step backward, caught at a low shrub for time 
to draw one steady breath- 

“Bruce,” said the priest. 

Only a bemused shake of the head answered 
him. The man took a step toward the roadway 
and — the river. 

Then the priest came forward and put up his 
hand. In his voice was a note of command, a 
tone before which the kings of the earth have 
trembled. 

“Bruce Wilton 1” 

The man stopped as though an invisible force 
had met him. He turned and answered, “Yes !” 

“Rouse yourself.” The priest came nearer 
and laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder. 
“Speak to me! How came you here?” 

“They — they were after me.” 

“They? Who?” 

“Shapes of poisonous things that tried to seize 
me. They laughed and mocked at me. I was 
there, alone in a room and — and I — I saw on the 

wall the date, July lo. Then I — I ” He 

looked about him wildly, and with a smothered 
cry threw himself on his knees and clasped the 
priest’s hand. “You won’t let them take me. You 

won’t — you won’t .” His voice died away 

inarticulately. 

Lovingly the father laid his hand upon the 
man’s head, and his voice spoke low and sooth- 
ingly. 


254 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 


The mist had abandoned the hillside. It was 
fleeing through the narrow streets of the village, 
hurrying across the broad river. 

And along a narrow path, at the chapel’s north- 
erly end, a black gowned figure hurried. It 
paused, looked up at the towering cross of gold, 
and then stole softly to the sacristy door. A 
small hand pushed it gently open ; the dark figure 
blended with the shadows inside the chapel and 
the door closed noiselessly. 

“No harm shall come to you, lad,” said Father 
Kelly softly. Then he bent lower to the stricken 
face of the man and looked steadily into his 
feverish eyes. “You know me, don’t you. You 
know Father Kelly ?” 

Bruce rose to his feet. He was steady now. 
“Yes,” he replied slowly. “You came to my house 
that night a — a year ago.” He paused as the full 
force of the sweet recollection of that evening 
flooded him. “You asked a blessing on it, on us 
all.” 

“I did,” the father answered steadily. 

Bruce caught his breath painfully and he 
looked down at his torn and miry garments. 
“And this is the answer to your prayer.” He 
laughed jarringly. “Isn’t it funny, Father, that 
I, in rags and tatters, a bleeding, broken, beaten 
parody of a man, should come to you here — 

today .” His roving eyes fell on the chapel, 

clear and distinct now in the gray light, and 
something stirred in him strangely. He put his 
hands on the marble walls and moved along their 
length for a pace or two. 

“Yes,” spoke the priest calmly, “this is the 
chapel you built for me, Bruce, and at dawn it 
will be dedicated.” 


The Voice from Above 


255 


Bruce leaned back upon the wall, his hands 
loose at his sides. “We didn’t think,” he said at 
last slowly; “we didn’t think that night that it 
would end like — like this !” 

“This is not the end, lad.” There was supreme 
conviction in the father’s tone. “ ’Tis only the 
beginning of the lesson you must learn, that there 
is One Heavenly Father who loves us, guides us, 
rules us all, whose great heart of pity is torn with 
grief at our sins, who suffers for us, with us, and 
who in' His own good time, in His omniscient 
wisdom will bring us all Home.” The 
father’s voice was like some mighty, throbbing 
tone of the ages, echoing down the aisles of time, 
breathing the True Faith that sways the world 
and all mankind. 

He took a step nearer the man, and his voice 
was very tender as he asked, “Where is Vera?” 

Bruce stiffened back on the wall. He threw 
both hands out before him. “Don’t — don’t speak 
her name. She brought me to this .” 

“Stop!” commanded Father Kelly. “Not one 
word against her! There’s no voice on earth 
good enough to speak of her.” 

“You — you believe in her. Father?” 

“As I believe in my religion, as I hope for an 
hereafter where pain and suffering shall be no 
more !” 

Bruce faltered. “If — if I could believe!” 

“Ye shall!” There was surety in the father’s 
tone. “The black cloud that’s over you shall pass 
and the sunlight of belief in God’s love shall flood 
your darkened soul.” He laid his hand upon the 
man’s shoulder. “Bruce, dear lad, what evil 
thing came to you that day?” 


256 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

'‘I don’t know.” And Bruce looked up into 
his friend’s eyes. Already he felt better, stronger ; 
the mere presence of this man helped him. 

Father Kelly shook his head. "‘And yet, ’twas 
there,” he said slowly. “Try to think calmly, my 
boy, and answer me a few questions. Was there 
anyone who wished you harm ?” 

Bruce shook his head, as he dropped upon a 
carved marble seat, placed in the shadowed angle 
of the chapel. “No one. Father I” 

“But think, lad, think hard now.” 

An auto glided smoothly down the roadway 
and stopped before the chapel. A man stepped 
from it and came across the level greensward 
toward them. 

“Good morning. Father Kelly,” he said easily. 

The priest turned and took a step toward him. 
“Good day to you, Mr. Kenward Wright,” he 
answered briefly. 

Kenward looked at the priest a moment, then 
his gaze traveled to the huddled figure on the 
marble seat. “Fve come for you, Bruce,” he said 
kindly, and started toward his friend. 

The priest laid his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. 
“Wait a moment, please, Mr. Wright.” He 
paused and looked at him directly. “You’ve 
come for my dear boy, Bruce, you say ?” 

Kenward drew him nearer with a look. “Yes, 
Father,” he replied in a low tone. “Fve had him 
examined by an expert and, on his advice, took 
him to a sanitarium today. Somehow he escaped 
and — well, he should go back there.” He paused 
and added, “Bruce isn’t quite right — you under- 
stand?” 


The Voice from Above 


257 


Father Kelly shook his head. Busy with his 
own thoughts, he answered the question he had 
been asking himself all the year, instead of that 
one Kenward had put to him. “No,” he replied 
softly ; “no, but I’m hoping, to fathom it.” 

His words puzzled Kenward. He gazed at him 
for a moment, and then looked toward the crum- 
pled man upon the seat. “Come, Bruce,” he said 
sharply. 

As Bruce staggered to his feet the priest 
caught his hand. “You’ll stay to the service, dear 
lad?” 

Kenward struck in curtly, before Bruce could 
answer, “I would, by all means; you’re dressed 
for it aren’t you?” 

“In the house of God, Mr. Wright,” and there 
was a ring of steel in the father’s tone ; “it is not 
what you wear upon your back, but what your 
naked soul is in His eyes, that counts!” He 
turned to his friend and his voice trembled with 
an appeal. “You’ll stay, Bruce?” 

“No,” cried the man, almost savagely. “No, . 
I’ve tried to believe. All my life I’ve tried — and 
your God answers me by bringing me down to 
this — to the humiliation of poverty and rags.” 

High and clear rose the father’s tone above his 
own. “Maybe ’tis only that you may rise a new 
and a better man.” Imploringly he stretched out 
his hands, his voice quivered. “Bruce, dear, 
dear boy, come pray with me before yonder 
altar.” Tenderly he sought to lead him toward 
the massive chapel doors. 

“No!” Bruce freed himself roughly. “No, 
there are oaths in my heart, blasphemies on my 
lips.” 


258 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

The father gave a cry of pain as he put his 
hands over his eyes. “Don’t, lad, you can’t know 
what you’re saying — don’t, don’t!” 

But the man whose soul he fought for there in 
the gray of the coming dawn, held his clenched 
hands up to the growing light in the heavens and 
his tortured memory lashed him on. ‘T gave a 
rosary to the woman I loved,” he cried ; “a rosary 
of pearls. Each pearl was a prayer, a prayer 
from my soul that some power would change 
my heart and bring me to faith, belief.” 

“And that prayer will be answered, Bruce !” 

“When, when? Must I sink still lower, sound 
the depths of more misery and despair?” 

“The time may be now!” And in the father’s 
eyes there was a strange light. “Kneel,” he cried, 
and then his voice took a tone of command. 
“Kneel, I say!” 

Bruce obeyed. He put his shaking hands to 
his face and tried to think. 

Above him stood the father, his white face up- 
lifted, his lips moving. 

“Better let me take him away.” It was Ken- 
ward’s calm tones that broke the stillness ; but 
Father Kelly did not seem to hear. “Bruce,” he 
murmured, “my boy, Bruce, once so full of life 
and joy, now fallen to this. It is as though some 
evil power held him.” 

Kenward smiled. “That isn’t possible,” he 
said. 

“And I know it is,” came the priest’s tone. 
“Since the day man first thought of evil it has 
had its power. An evil thought holds my poor 
lad now ; but God in his mercy can change that 
He can restore him.” 


The Voice from Above 


259 


“You believe in miracles, then ?’' 

“Who doubts them ? Don’t they happen about 
us every day? Ask the young mother whose 
soul goes down to the very gates of Death that 
her smiling babe may lie in her arms. Isn’t that 
a miracle? God working through Nature for 
all mankind.” 

“Then work a miracle for him now!” Ken- 
ward’s tone had a half sneer behind it. “Prove 
to him that his wife, Vera, is true ; that she came 
down from her room that night, not to meet a 
man, but for her sister.” 

But the priest did not turn to him. His eyes 
were fixed on the slowly growing light in the 
heavens. “That’s what I’m praying, for now,” 
he said slowly. 

Kenward smiled and came nearer. “Prove to 
him that the rosary he gave Vera is stainless.” 
He paused for breath. “Speak the name of the 
man who came to his house that night !” 

The dawn was creeping up over the eastern 
sky ; the light was changing from a grayish steel 
to a warmer hue ; faint streaks of color shot 
above the horizon like golden sword thrusts. 

But the man who knelt saw nothing of this; 
his mind was set upon one idea — to — to — get 
away — the — river. It flowed, darkly, swiftly, 
there at the foot of the hill. One longing filled 
him — to steal down there and lay himself to rest — 
sleep, oblivion in those silent, hurrying waters. 

With a crash the bell of the chapel rung one 
sonorous note. It filled earth and air and sky 
with its reverberations. The cool morning air 
shook with the tone, carried it down through 
the village, across the river, over the eastern hills. 


2Q0 


Father Kelly of the Rosary 

Bruce staggered to his feet. He put out his 
hand to his friend and smiled as one who has 
done with life. ‘‘Good bye, Father, ’’ he said 
thickly. 

“Wait, Bruce, wait!’^ said the father softly. 
He stood upon the marble steps, his black figure 
thrown in clear relief against the massive doors 
behind him, his hands were uplifted, his pale face 
questioned the reddening heavens with closed 
eyes. Earth seemed to have fallen away before 
him, the mighty power of his soul energy was 
drawn to one point — this trial of his faith. 

Slowly came the words from his lips. “Father 
above — look down — your promise — ask and — ^ye 
shall receive. Ask ” 

Again the thunder of the chapel bell shook the 
air — and then, high and clear and sweet, like the 
voice of a spirit from above, there thrilled from 
the chapel the sound of the great organ, played 
by the fingers of Love. 

Kenward started and a strange look came over 
his face. 

The man half way to the roadway and the 
river, with the awful thought of self-destruction 
in his mind, stopped. The hard lines melted from 
his face ; he smiled and put up his hand, for the 
organ’s voice throbbed with the tones of an air 
he knew. “ ‘The Rosary,’ he whispered. 

“Come, Bruce.” It was Kenward’s sharp tone. 

But before he could speak or move, it came — 
the answer to the father’s fasting and vigil. Clear 
and high the priest heard it, felt it ring through 
the depths of his being. 

“Stand where you are !” he cried, with his hand 








“It comes from Above” 








The Voice from Above 


261 


upflung, and there was majesty in his look and 
bearing, a new and wonderful light upon his face. 
“Stand where you are! The man who came to 
your house that night, Bruce Wilton, the man 
who has brought you to this is you, Ken ward 
Wright,” and his hand pointed and drove home 
the words. 

With a cry, Kenward started forward. “How 
do you know that?” he screamed hoarsely. 

“It comes from above,” thundered the voice of 
the Holy Priest. His eyes opened wide and tore 
through the man he faced, brought him with a 
cry down upon his face, groveling at the feet 
of the black-robed figure that towered above him. 

From over the hill a shaft of golden sunlight, 
advance guard of the rising sun, fell full upon 
the father. Behind them the chapel doors opened 
silently and Vera stood there, a great hope in 
her eyes. 

“Speak, Kenward Wright,” said the priest 
solemnly. “Speak, confess. ‘The soul that sin- 
neth it shall die.’ Only by repentance, confession, 
penance, can you ever find peace. Speak I” 

“It’s — it’s true,” gasped the sin-tortured man 
at his feet. “All, all true. I hated you, Bruce, 

because Vera loved you ” 

“Kenward!” gasped Bruce; you ” 

The other shook his head. Yes, he would tell 
all. Remorse had dogged him ever since that 
night. Always at his elbow he heard Alice’s 
pleading voice, felt the touch of her hand ; why, 
she was there now. He drew his hand over his 
writhing face and went on desperately : “I meant 
to take all from you. Alice showed me the way. 


262 Father Kelly of the Rosary 

When you and Vera went to — to the library that 
night — Alice came in from the grounds. She — 
she knew I was there. I had met her — West; — 
lied to her, deceived her — given her another name 
— and — well, I saw I must get her away. I made 
an — an excuse — got away — came back for her. 
Alice had listened at your door — when you told 
Vera about your plan — in Iowa Central. She let 
it drop to me. She — she — was half mad — and — I 
saw my chance. Then Vera came — and Alice — 
went. I couldn’t find her. Well — you know the 
rest — I ruined you — ^but the money is there — you 

shall have it back — for — I — did — it — I — I 

His voice died away and he drooped forward, his 
hands over his face. 

And then Bruce felt a light hand upon his arm. 
Vera was standing there, her eyes full of long- 
ing for him, the man who had doubted her, the 

man — With a cry he dropped on his knees and 

raised the hem of her poor, shabby skirt to his 
lips. “My wife,” he said brokenly. “Forgive 
me!” 

She raised him with her loving hands, and 
put her arms about his neck, drew his worn and 
weary face down upon her breast and hushed 
him gently. “I love you, Bruce, I love you !” 

Up from the village came the sound of low 
voices, as the people came in answer to the call 
of the chapel bell. And in the lead came Lee 
and L'esura, while Charley and Kathleen de- 
scended the hill. They paused as they saw the 
silent figures on the greensward before the chapel, 
and their voices were hushed. 

Father Kelly raised his hand and pointed, 


The Voice from Above 


263 


“The sacred doors of His house are open,” ,he 
said gently. 

Bruce took his hand and his eyes were upraised 
to the glowing heavens. ‘T do believe,” he said 
solemnly. ‘T believe, help Thou, my unbeliei !” 

The priest, with a glad cry, caught him in his 
arms. “Bruce!” he said. 

But the man upon the earth put up his hands 
with a cry as they turned toward the chapel. 
“Father,” he cried, “don’t, don’t leave me. I’m 
suffering, suffering. The evil I have done grips 
me, will not let me go! Pity me, Father, and 
help me.” 

With a divine look upon his face. Father Kelly 
bent over Kenward. “Pity you ? I do,” he said. 
“Help you? Yes. The church seeks justice, not 
revenge. Look up, my son ; see how the dawn is 
breaking. 'At sunrise every soul is born again.’ 
And so I say to you, as my Master said of old, 
'Go, and sin no more.’ ” 

And so, with the joy of Divine love in their 
hearts, they went over the dewy grass, through 
the crimson glory of the dawn, up the broad, 
marble steps into the Chapel of the Rosary. 

Father Kelly followed those he loved slowly. 
He stood alone upon the marble steps and gazed at 
the peaceful valley ; at the river winding its shin- 
ing course to the sea; the trees, flowers, shrubs, 
waving in the cool morning breeze. He listened 
to the happy song of the birds, and a great wave 
of thankfulness filled his soul and shone from his 
eyes. 

“Father,” he murmured softly; “Father, I 
thank Thee.” 


THE END. 



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